THE LIFE 



REV. GEORGE CRABBE, LL.B. 



BY HIS SON 



THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE, A. M. 



CAMBRIDGE & BOSTON : 
JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY 

MDCCC XXXIV. 



jififris 



CAMBRIDGE PRESS: 
METCALF, TORRY, AND BALLOT 



TO 

THE REV. W. L. BOWLES, 

CANON OF SALISBURY, 
&c. &c. &c. 

THESE MEMOIRS 

OF 

HIS DEPARTED FRIEND AND BROTHER-POET 

ARE INSCRIBED, 

IN TESTIMONY OF THAT GRATEFUL AND 

AFFECTIONATE RESPECT 

WHICH 

HAS DESCENDED FROM MR. CRABBE 

TO 

HIS children's CHILDREN. 



PREFACE. 



The success of some recent biographical works, 
evidently written by unpractised hands, suggested 
to me the possibility that my recollections of my 
father might be received with favor by the public. 
The rough draft of the following narrative was 
accordingly drawn up, and submitted to my father's 
friend, Mr. Thomas Moore, whom at that time I 
had never seen, and who, in returning it, was so 
kind as to assure me that he had read it with 
much interest, and conceived that, with a little 
correction, it might gratify the readers of Mr. 
Crabbe's Poetical Works. I afterwards transmit- 
ted it to his friend Mr. Rogers, who expressed 
himself in terms equally flattering to an inexpe- 
rienced writer ; and who — as, indeed, Mr. Moore 
had done before — gave me the most valuable 
species of assistance I could have received, by in- 
dicating certain passages that ought to be oblite- 
rated. Mr. Moore, Mr. Campbell, Mr. Lockhart, 
Mrs. Joanna Baillie, Mr. Duncan, Mr. Clark, and 
others of my father's friends, have, moreover, taken 
the trouble to draw up brief summaries of their 



viii PREFACE. 

personal reminiscences of him, with which I have 
been kindly permitted to enrich this humble Me- 
moir. 

The letters and extracts of letters from Sir Wal- 
ter Scott, Mr. Roger Wilbraham, Mr. Canning, 
Mrs. Leadbeater, and other eminent friends of 
Mr. Crabbe, now deceased, which are introduced 
in the following pages, have been so used with the 
permission of their representatives ; and I have to 
thank the Duke of Rutland, the Marquis of Lans- 
downe. Earl Grey, Lord Holland, the Right Hon. 
J. W. Croker, the Rev, Richard Turner, and the 
other living gentlemen, whose correspondence has 
been as serviceable to my labors as it was honor- 
able to my father's character, for leave to avail 
myself of these valuable materials, 

I cannot conclude, without expressing my sense 
of the important assistance which has been ren- 
dered to me, in finally correcting my work and 
arranging it for the press, by a friend high in the 
scale of literary distinction ; who, however, does 
not permit me to mention his name on this occa- 
sion. On the assistance I have received from my 
brother, and another member of my own family, 
it would be impertinent to dwell. 

Pucklechurch, Jan. 6, 1834. 



CONTENTS 



CHAPTER I. 



1754—1775. 



Mr. Crabbe's Birth, Parentage, and early Education. — His Ap- 
prenticeship to a Surgeon. — His Attachment to Miss Elmy, 
afterwards his Wife. — Publication of " Inebriety," a Poem. 1 

CHAPTER H. 

1775—1780. 

Termination of Mr. Crabbe's Apprenticeship. — Visit to London. — 
He sets up for himself at Aldborough. — Failure of his Plans 
there. — He gives up his Business, and proceeds to London as a 
Literary Adventurer 28 

CHAPTER HL 

1780. 

Mr. Crabbe's Difficulties and Distresses in Loudon. — Publication 
of his Poem, " The Candidate." — His unsuccessful Application 
to Lord North, Lord Shelburne, and other eminent Individuals. 

— His " Journal to Mira." 46 

CHAPTER IV. 

1781. 

Mr. Crabbe's Letter to Burke, and its consequences. — The Publi- 
cation of " T h£- Lib rary." — He is domesticated at Beaconsfield. 

— Takes Orders. — Is appointed Curate at Aldborough. . 85 



X CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER. V. 

1782 — 1783. 

Mr. Crabbe's Appointment as domestic Chaplain to the Duke of 
Rutland. — Removes to Belvoir Castle. — Publication of " The 
Village." 106 

CHAPTER VI. 

1784 — 1792. 

Mr. Crabbe marries. — He resides successively at Belvoir Castle, 
at his Curacy of Stathern, and at his Rectory of Muston. — In- 
crease of his family. — Publication of " The Newspaper." — 
Visits and Journeys. — His Mode of Life, Occupations, and 
Amusements. 122 

CHAPTER VII. 

1792 — 1804. 

Mr. Crabbe's Residence in Suffolk, — At Parham, — At Glemham, 
— And at Rendham 144 

CHAPTER VIII. 

1805—1814. 

Mr. Crabbe's Second Residence in Muston. — PubUcation of " The 
Parish Register." — Letters from eminent Individuals. — Visit 
to Cambridge. — Appearance of " The Borough," and of the 
" Tales in Verse." — Letters to and from Sir Walter Scott 
and others. — A Month in London. — The Prince Regent at 
Belvoir. — Death of Mrs. Crabbe. — Mr. Crabbe's Removal from 
Leicestershire — Lines written at Glemham after my Mother's 
Decease. 173 



CONTENTS. XI 

CHAPTER IX. 

1814 — 1819. 

Mr. Crabbe's Residence and Habits of Life at Trowbridge. — His 
Study of Fossils. — His Correspondence with Mary Leadbeater. 
' — His Journal kept during a Visit to London. — Letters to and 
from Mr. Crabbe. — His " Tales of the Hall." — Visit to Sir 
Walter Scott at Edinburgh, &c 206 

CHAPTER X. 

1823 — 1832. 

The closing Years of Mr. Crabbe's Life. — Annual Excursions. — 
Domestic Habits. — Visit to Pucklechurch. — His last Tour to 
Clifton, Bristol, &c. — His Illness and Death. — His Fune- 
ral 275 



LIFE 



THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE. 



CHAPTER I. 
1754 — 1775. 

MR. CRABBE'S birth, PARENTAGE, AND EARLY EDUCATION. 
HIS APPRENTICESHIP TO A SURGEON. HIS ATTACH- 
MENT TO MISS ELMY, AFTERWARDS HIS WIFE. PUBLI- 
CATION OF "inebriety," a poem. 

As one of tlie severest calamities of life, the loss of 
our first and dearest friends, can be escaped by none 
whose own days are not prematurely cut short, the most 
pious affection must be contented to pray that the afflic- 
tion may come on us gradually, and after we have formed 
new connections to sustain us, and, in part at least, fill 
up the void. In this view, the present writer has every 
reason to consider with humble thankfulness the period 
and circumstances of his father's departure. The grow- 
ing decline of his bodily strength had been perceptible to 
all around him for several years. He himself had long 
set the example of looking forward with calmness to the 
hour of his dissolution ; and if the firmness and resigna- 
tion of a Christian's death-bed must doubly endear his 
1 



2 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

memory to his children, they also afford indescribable 
consolation after the scene is closed. At an earlier 
period, Mr. Crabbe's death would have plunged his 
family in insupportable suffering : but when the blow fell, 
it had many alleviations. 

With every softening circumstance, however, a con- 
siderable interval must pass, before the sons of such a 
parent can bear to dwell on the minor peculiarities of his 
image and character ; — a much longer one, ere they 
can bring themselves to converse on light and ludicrous 
incidents connected with his memory. The tone of 
some passages in the ensuing narrative may appear at 
variance w^ith these feelings ; and it is therefore neces- 
sary for me to state here, that the design of drawing up 
some memoirs of my father's life, from his own fireside 
anecdotes, had occurred to me several years ago, and 
that a great part of what I now lay before the public had 
been committed to writing more than a twelvemonth 
before his decease. At the time when I was thus occu- 
pied, although his health was evidently decaying, there 
was nothing to forbid the hope that he might linger for 
years among us, in the enjoyment of such comforts as 
can smooth the gradual descent of old age to the tomb ; 
and I pleased myself with the fond anticipation, that 
when I should have completed my manuscript, he him- 
self might be its first critic, and take the trouble to 
correct it wherever I had fallen into any mistakes of 
importance. But he was at last carried off by a violent 
illness of short duration — and thus ended for ever the 
most pleasing dream of my authorship. 

I mention these things to caution the reader against 
construinor into unfilial levity certain passages of this 



ALDBOROUGH. 3 

little work : but at the same time, I feel that Mr. Crabbe 
himself would have wished his son, if he attempted to 
write his life at all, to do so, as far as might be possible, 
with the unbiassed fairness of one less intimately con- 
nected with him. To impartiality, certainly, I cannot 
pretend ; but I hope partiality does not necessarily imply 
misrepresentation. I shall endeavour to speak of him as 
his manly and honest mind would have wished me to do. 
I shall place before the reader, not only his nobler quali- 
ties, but the weaknesses and infirmities which m.ingled 
with them — and of which he was more conscious than 
of the elevation of his genius. To trick out an ideal 
character for the public eye, by either the omission or 
the exaggeration of really characteristic traits, is an office 
which my respect for my father — even if there were 
nothing else — would render it impossible for me to 
attempt. I am sustained by the belief, that his country- 
men at large respect his memory too much to wish that 
his history should be turned into any thing like a 
romance, and the hope that they will receive with indul- 
gence a faithful narrative, even though it should be a 
homely one. 

I have in vain endeavoured to trace his descent beyond 
his grandfather. Various branches of the name appear 
to have been settled, from a remote period, in Norfolk, 
and in different seafaring places on the coast of Suffolk ; 
and it seems probable that the first who assumed it was 
a fisherman.* A pilot by name Crabbe, of Walton, was 

* " I cannot account for the vanity of that one of my ancestors 
who first (being dissatisfied with the four letters which composed 
the name of ' Crab,' the sour fruit, or ' Crab,' the crusty fish) added 
his be by way of disguise. Alas ! he gained nothing worth his 



4 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

consulted as a man of remarkable experience, about the 
voyage of Edward the Third, previous to the battle of 
Cressy. The Crabbes of Norfolk have been, for many 
generations in the station of farmers, or wealthy yeomen ; 
and I doubt whether any of the race had ever risen much 
above this sphere of life; for though there is now in the 
possession of my uncle at South wold an apparently an- 
cient coat of arms, — gules, three crab-fish or, — how or 
whence it came into the hands of his father we have no 
trace, and therefore I cannot attach much weight to such 
a shadowy token of gentle pretensions. 

George Crabbe, the Poet's grandfather, was a burgess 
of Aldborough, who became, in his latter days, collector 
of the customs in that port, but must have died in nar- 
row circumstances ; since his son, named also George, 
and originally educated for trade, appears to have been, 
very early in life, the keeper of a parochial school in the 
porch of the church of Orford. From this place he 
removed to Norton, near Loddon, in Norfolk, where he 
united the humble offices of schoolmaster and parish 
clerk. He at length returned to Aldborough, where, 
after acting for many years as warehouse-keeper and 
deputy collector, he rose to be collector of the salt-duties, 
or Salt-master. He was a man of strong and vigorous 
talents, skilful in business of all sorts, distinguished in 
particular for an extraordinary faculty of calculation ; 
and, during many years of his life, was the factotum, as 
the Poet expressed it, of Aldborough. Soon after his 

trouble ; but he has brought upon ine, his descendant after 1 
know not how many generations, a question beyond my abilities to 
answer." — Mr. Crabbe to Mr. Chantrey, Dec. 11, 1822. 



ALDBOROUGH. 5 

final settlement in his native town, he married a widow 
of the name of Loddock, a woman of the most amiable 
disposition, mild, patient, affectionate, and deeply reli- 
gious in her turn of mind ; and by her he had six 
children, all of whom, except one girl, lived to mature 
years. 

George Crabbe, the Poet, was the eldest of the 
family ; and was born at Aldborough, on the Christmas 
eve of 1754.* His next brother, Robert, was bred to 
the business of a glazier, and is now livinor in retirement 
at Southwold. John Crabbe, the third son, served for 
some time in the royal navy, and became subsequently 
the captain of a Liverpool slave-ship. Returning from a 
successful voyage, he married the owner's daughter ; 
and, on his next excursion, he perished by an insurrec- 
tion of the slaves. The negroes, having mastered the 
crew, set the whole of them adrift in an open boat ; and 
neither Captain Crabbe nor any of his companions were 
ever again heard of. The fourth brother, William, also 
took to a seafaring life. Being made prisoner by the 
Spaniards, he was carried to Mexico, where he became a 
silversmith, married, and prospered, until his increasing 
riches attracted a charge of Protestantism ; the conse- 
quence of which was much persecution. He at last was 

* When my grandfather first settled in Aldborough, he lived in an 
old house in that range of buildings which the sea has now almost 
demolished. The chambers projected far over the ground floor ; 
and the windows were small, with diamond panes, almost impervi- 
ous to the light. In this gloomy dwelling the Poet was born. The 
house of which Mr. Bernard Barton has published a print as " the 
birth-place of Crabbe " was inhabited by the family during my 
father's boyhood. 

1* 



Q LIFE OF CRABBE. 

obliged to abandon Mexico, his property, and his family ; 
and was discovered, in the year 1803, by an Aldborough 
sailor, on the coast of Honduras, where again he seems 
to have found some success in business. This sailor was 
the only person he had seen for many a year who could 
tell him any thing of Aldborough and his family ; and 
great was his perplexity when he was informed, that his 
eldest brother, George, was a clergyman — the sailor, I 
dare say, had never himself heard of his being a poet. 
" This cannot be our George," said the wanderer — " he 
was a dodo?' ! " This was the first, and it was also the 
last, tidings that ever reached my father of his brother 
William ; and, upon the Aldborough sailor's story of his 
casual interview, it is obvious that the Poet built his tale 
of " The Parting Hour," whose hero, Allen Booth, 
" yielded to the Spanish force," and — 

" no more 
Returned exulting to his native shore." 

Like William Crabbe, 

" There, hopeless ever to escape the land. 
He to a Spanish maiden gave his hand : 
In cottage sheltered from the blaze of day- 
He saw his happy infants round him play, — 
Where summer shadows, made by lofty trees. 
Waved o'er his seat, and soothed his reveries. 

But — 

" ' Whilst I was poor,' said Allen, ' none would care 
What my poor notions of religion were ; 
I preached no foreign doctrine to my wife, 
And never mentioned Luther in my life ; 
Their forms I followed, whether well or sick, 
And was a most obedient Catholick. 
But I had money — and these pastors found 
My notions vague, heretical, unsound.' 



ALDBOROUGH. 7 

" Alas, poor Allen ! through this wealth were seen 
Crimes that by poverty concealed had been : 
Faults that in dusty pictures rest unknown. 
Are in an instant through the varnish shown. 
They spared his forfeit life, hut bade him fly ; 
Or for his crime and contumacy die. 
Fly from all scenes, all objects of delight; 
His wife, his children, weeping in his sight. 
All urging him to flee — he fled, and cursed his flight. . . . 
He next related how he found a way, 
Guideless and grieving, to Campeachy Bay : 
There in the woods, he wrought, and there among 
Some laboring seamen heard his native tongue : 
Again he heard. — he seized an offered hand — 
' And when beheld you last our native land ? ' 
He cried, ' and in what country ? quickly say.' 
The seamen answered — strangers all were they — 
One only at his native port had been ; 
He landing once the quay and church had seen." &c. 

The youngest of this family, Mary, became the wife of 
Mr. Sparkes, a builder in her native town, where she 
died in 1827. Another sister, as has been mentioned, 
died in infancy ; and I find among my father's papers 
the following lines, referring to the feelings with which, 
in the darkening evening of life, he still recurred to that 
early distress. 

" But it was misery stung me in the day 
Death of an infant sister made his prey ; 
For then first met and moved my early fears 
A father's terrors and a mother's tears. 
Though greater anguish I have since endured, 
Some healed in part, some never to be cured. 
Yet w^as there something in that first-born ill 
So new, so strange, that memory feels it still." MS. 



8 ' LIFE OF CRABBE. 

The "second of these couplets has sad truth in every 
word. The fears of the future poet were as real as the 
tears of his mother, and the "terrors" of his father. 
The Salt-master was a man of imperious temper and 
violent passions ; but the darker traits of his character 
had, at this period, showed themselves only at rare inter- 
vals, and on extraordinary occasions. He had been 
hitherto, on the whole, an exemplary husband and father ; 
and was passionately devoted to the little girl, whose 
untimely death drew from him those gloomy and savage 
tokens of misery, which haunted, fifty years after, the 
memory of his gentler son. He was a man of short 
stature, but very robust and powerful ; and he had a 
highly marked countenance, not unlike in lineaments, as 
my father used to say, to that of Howard the philanthro- 
pist ; but stamped with the trace of passions which that 
illustrious man either knew not or had subdued. 

Aldborough — (or, as it is more correctly written, 
Aldeburgh) — was in those days, a poor and wretched 
place, with nothing of the elegance and gaiety which 
have since sprung up about it, in consequence of the 
resort of watering parties. The town lies between a low 
hill or cliff, on which only the old church and a few 
better houses were then situated, and the beach of the 
German Ocean. It consisted of two parallel and unpaved 
streets, running between mean and scrambling houses, 
the abodes of seafaring men, pilots, and fishers. The 
rancre of houses nearest to the sea had suffered so much 
from repeated invasions of the waves, that only a few 
scattered tenements appeared erect among the desola- 
tion. I have often heard my father describe a tremendous 
spring-tide of, I think, the first of January, 1779, when 



ALDBOROUGH. 9 

eleven houses here were at once demolished ; and he saw 
the breakers dash over the roofs, curl round the walls, 
and crush all to ruin.* The beach consists of succes- 
sive ridges — large loUed stones, then loose shingle, and, 
at the fall of the tide, a stripe of fine hard sand. Vessels 
of all sorts, from the large heavy troll-boat to the yawl 
and prame, drawn up along the shore — fishermen pre- 
paring their tackle, or sorting their spoil — and nearer 
the gloomy old town-hall (the only indication of munici- 
pal dignity) a few groups of mariners, chiefly pilots, 
taking their quick, short walk backwards and forwards, 
every eye watchful of a signal from the offing — such 
was the squalid scene that first opened on the author of 
" The Village." 

Nor was the landscape in the vicinity of a more engag- 
ing aspect — open commons and sterile farms, the soil 
poor and sandy, the herbage bare and rushy, the trees 
" feiv and far between," and withered and stunted by 
the bleak breezes of the sea. The opening picture of 
" The Village " was copied, in every touch, from the 
scene of the Poet's nativity and boyish days : 

" Lo ! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, 
Lends the light turf that warms the neighbouring poor ; 
From thence a length of burning sand appears, 
Where the thin harvest weaves its withered ears ; 

* " From an accurate plan of the borough, which was taken in 
1559, it appear? that the church was then more than ten times its 
present distance from the shore ; and also that there were Denes of 
some extent, similar to those of Yarmouth, between the town and 
the sea, which have long been swallowed up and lost. After very 
high tides, the remains of wells have been frequently discovered 
below high-watermark." — Mdborough Described, by the Rev. 
James Ford, p. 4. 



10 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Rank weeds, that every art and care defy. 
Reign o'er the land, and rob the bhghted rye ; 
There thistles spread their prickly arms afar. 
And to the ragged infants threaten war." 

The *' broad river," called the Aid, approaches the 
sea close to Aldborough, within a few hundred yards, 
and then turning abruptly continues to run for about ten 
miles parallel to the beach, — from which, for the most 
part, a dreary stripe of marsh and waste alone divides 
it, — until it at length finds its embouchure at Orford. 
The scenery of this river has been celebrated as lovely 
and delightful, in a poem called " Slaughden Vale," 
written by Mr. James Bird, a friend of my father's; 
and old Camden talks of *' the beautiful vale of Slaucrh- 
den." I confess, however, that though I have ever found 
an indescribable charm in the very weeds of the place, 
i never could perceive its claims to beauty. Such as it 
is, it has furnished Mr. Crabbe with many of his happiest 
and most graphical descriptions : and the same may be 
said of the whole line of coast from Orford to Dunwich, 
every feature of which has somewhere or other been 
reproduced in his writings. The quay of Slaughden, in 
particular, has been painted with all the minuteness of a 
Dutch landscape : — 

" Here samphire banks and saltwort bound the flood, 
There stakes and sea- weeds withering on the mud ; 
And higher up a ridge of all things base. 
Which some strong tide has rolled upon the place. . . . 
Yon is our quay ! those smaller hoys from town. 
Its various wares for country use bring down." &c. &c. 

The powerful effect with which Mr. Crabbe has de- 
picted the ocean itself, both in its calm and its tempestu- 



ALDBOROUGH. H 

ous aspects, may lead many to infer that, had he been 
born and educated in a region of mountains and forests, 
he might have represented them also as happily as he 
has done the slimy marshes and withered commons of the 
coast of Suffolk ; but it is certain that he visited, and 
even resided in, some of the finest parts of our island in 
after-life, without appearing to take much delight in the 
grander features of inland scenery ; and it may be doubt- 
ed whether, under any circumstances, his mind would ever 
have found much of the excitement of delight elsewhere 
than in the study of human beings. And certainly, for 
one desthied to distinction as a portrayer of character, 
few scenes could have been more fiivorable than that of 
his infancy and boyhood. He was cradled among the 
rough sons of the ocean, — a daily witness of unbridled 
passions, and of manners remote from the sameness and 
artificial smoothness of polished society. At home, as has 
already been hinted, he was subject to the caprices of a 
stern and imperious, though not unkindly nature ; and, 
probably, few whom he could familiarly approach but had 
passed through some of those dark domestic tragedies in 
which his future strength was to be exhibited. The 
common people of Aldborough in those days are describ- 
ed as — 

" a wild, amphibious race, 
With sullen woe displayed in every face ; 
Who far from civil arts and social fly, 
And scowl at strangers with suspicious eye.'^ 

Nor, although the family in which he was born happen- 
ed to be somewhat above the mass in point of situation, 
was the remove so great as to be marked with any con- 
siderable difference in point of refinement. Masculine 



12 LIFE OF CKABBE. 

and robust frames, rude manners, stormy passions, labo- 
rious days, and, occasionally, boisterous nights of merri- 
ment, — among such accompaniments was born and 
reared the Poet of the Poor. 

His father, at this early period, was still, as I have 
already noticed, on the whole, domestic in his habits ; 
and he used occasionally to read aloud to his family in 
the evenings, passages from Milton, Young, or some 
other of the graver classics, with, as his son thought long 
afterwards, remarkable judgment, and with powerful 
effect : but his chosen intellectual pursuit was mathe- 
matical calculation. He mingled with these tastes not a 
little of the seafaring habits and propensities of the place. 
He possessed a share in a fishing-boat, in which he not 
unfrequently went to sea ; and he had also a small sailing- 
boat, in which he delighted to navigate the river. 

The first event which was deeply impressed on my 
father's memory was a voyage in this vessel. A party 
of amateur sailors was formed — the yacht club of 
Aldborough — to try the new purchase ; a jovial dinner 
prepared at Orford, and a merry return anticipated at 
night; and his fond mother obtained permission for 
George to be one of the company. Soon after sunrise, 
in a fine summer morning, they were seated in their 
respective vessels, and started in gallant trim, tacking 
and manoeuvring on the bosom of the flickering water, 
as it winds gently towards its junction with the sea. The 
freshness of the early dawn, the anticipation of amuse- 
ments at an unknovv^n place, and no little exultation in 
his father's crack vessel, ** made it," he said, " a morn- 
ing of exquisite delight ; " and, among the JMSS. which 
he left, are the following verses on this early incident : — 



ALDBOROUGH. 13 

" Sweet was the morning's breath, the inland tide, 
And our boat gUding, where alone could glide 
Small craft — and they oft touched on either side. 
It was my first-born joy — I heard them say, 
* Let the child go ; he will enjoy the day ; 
For children ever feel delighted when 
They take their portion and enjoy with men.' 

" The linnet chirped upon the furze as well, 
To my young sense, as sings the nightingale. 
Without was Paradise — because within 
Was a keen relish, without taint of sin." 

But it appears that, as in other sublunary pleasures, the 
best part of this day's sport was the anticipation of the 
morning ; for he adds, — 

" As the sun declined. 
The good found early I no more could find. 
The men drank much to whet the appetite. 
And, growing heavy, drank to make them light ; 
Then drank to relish joy, then further to excite. 
The lads played idly with the helm and oar. 
And nervous women would be set on shore. 
And ' civil dudgeon ' grew, and peace would smile no more. 
Till on the colder water faintly shone 
The sloping light — the cheerful day was gone. 
In life's advance, events like this I knew, — 
So they advanced, and so they ended too. 
The promised joy, that like this morning rose. 
Broke on the view — then clouded at its close." MS. 

Though born and brought up almost within the wash- 
ing of the surge, the future Poet had but few qualifica- 
tions for a sailor. The Salt-master often took his boys 
a-fishing with him ; and sorely was his patience tried 
with the awkwardness of the eldest. " That boy," he 
would say, " must be a fool. John, and Bob, and Will 
are all of some use about a boat ; but what will that 
2 



X4 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

tiling ever be good for?" This, however, was only the 
passion of the moment ; for Mr. Crabbe perceived early 
the natural talents of his eldest son, and, as that son 
ever gratefully remembered, was at more expense with 
his education than his worldly circumstances could well 
afford. 

My father was, indeed, in a great measure, self-edu- 
cated. After he could read at all — and he was a great 
favorite with the old dame who taught him — he was 
unwearied in reading ; and he devoured without re- 
straint whatever came into his hands, but especially 
works of fiction — those little stories and ballads about 
ghosts, witches, and fairies, which were then almost 
exclusively the literature of youth, and which, whatever 
else might be thought of them, served, no doubt, to strike 
out the first sparks of imagination in the mind of many 
a youthful poet. Mr. Crabbe retained, to the close of 
life, a strong partiality for marvellous tales of even this 
humble class. In verse he delighted, from the earliest 
time that he could read. His father took in a periodical 
work, called '' Martin's Philosophical Magazine," which 
contained at the end of each number, a sheet of " oc- 
casional poetry." The Salt-master irreverently cut out 
these sheets when he sent his magazines to be bound 
up at the end of the year ; and the " Poet's Corner " be- 
came the property of George, who read its contents until 
he had most of them by heart. The boy ere long tried 
to imitate the pieces which he thus studied ; and one of 
which, he used to say, particularly struck his childish 
fancy by this terrible concluding couplet, — 

" The boat went down in flames of fire, 
Which n»ade the people all admire." 



BUNGAY. 15 

Mild, obliging, and the most patient of listeners, he 
was a great favorite with the old dames of the place. 
Like his own " Richard," many a friendly 

" matron wooed him, quickly won, 
To fill the station of an absent son." 

He admired the rude prints on their walls, rummaged 
their shelves for books or ballads, and read aloud to 
those whose eyes had failed them, by the winter even- 
ing's fireside. Walking one day in the street, he 
chanced to displease a stout lad, who doubled his fist to 
beat him ; but another boy interfered to claim benefit 
of clergy for the studious George. " You must no 
meddle with him," he said ; '' let Jii?n alone, for he ha' 
got I'arning." 

His father observed this bookish turn, and though he 
had then no higher view for him in life than that he 
should follow his own example, and be employed in some 
inferior department of the revenue service, he resolved to 
give George the advantage of passing some time in a 
school at Bungay, on the borders of Norfolk, where it 
was hoped the activity of his mind would be disciplined 
into orderly diligence. I cannot say how soon this re- 
moval from the paternal roof took place ; but it must 
have been very early, as the following anecdote will 
show. The first night he spent at Bungay he retired to 
bed, he said, " with a heavy heart, thinking of his fond, 
indulgent mother." But the morning brought a new 
misery. The slender and delicate child had hitherto 
been dressed by his mother. Seeing the other boys begin 
to dress themselves, poor George, in great confusion, 

whispered to his bed-fellow, " Master G , can you 

put on your shirt ? — for — for I 'm afraid I cannot." 



15 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Soon after his arrival he had a very narrow escape. 
He and several of his schoolfellows were punished for 
playing at soldiers, by being put into a large dog-kennel, 
known by the terrible name of " the black hole." George 
was the first that entered ; and, the place being crammed 
full with offenders, the atmosphere soon became pestilen- 
tially close. The poor boy in vain shrieked that he was 
about to be suffocated. At last, in despair, he bit the 
lad next to him violently in the hand. " Crabbe is 
dying — Crabbe is dying," roared the sufferer ; and the 
sentinel at length opened the door, and allowed the boys 
to rush out into the air. My father said, " A minute 
more, and I must have died." 

I am unable to give any more particulars of his resi- 
dence at Bungay. When he was in his eleventh or 
twelfth year, it having now been determined that he 
should follow the profession of a surgeon, he was remov- 
ed to a school of somewhat superior character, kept by 
Mr. Richard Haddon, a skilful mathematician, at Stow- 
market, in the same county ; and here, inheriting his 
father's talent and predilection for mathematical science, 
he made considerable progress in such pursuits. The 
Salt-master used often to send difficult questions to Mr. 
Haddon, and, to his great delight, the solution came not 
unfrequently from his son ; and, although Haddon was 
neither a Porson nor a Parr, his young pupil laid, under 
his care, the foundations of a fair classical education 
also. Some girls used to come to the school in the 
evenings, to learn writing ; and the tradition is, that Mr. 
Crabbe''s first essay in verse was- a stanza of doggrel, 
cautioning one of these little damsels against being too 
much elevated about a new set of blue ribands to her 
straw bonnet. 



STOWMARKET. 17 

After leaving this school, some time passed before a 
situation as surgeon's apprentice could be found for him ; 
and, by his own confession, he has painted the manner 
in which most of this interval was spent, in those beauti- 
ful lines of his *' Richard," which give, perhaps, as 
striking a picture of the " inquisitive sympathy " and 
solitary musings of a youthful poet as can elsewhere be 
pointed out : — 

" I to the ocean gave 
My mind, and thoughts as restless as the wave. 
Where crowds assembled I was sure to run, 
Hear what was said, and muse on what was done. 
To me the wives of seamen loved to tell 
What storms endangered men esteemed so well ; 
No ships were wrecked upon that fatal beach 
But I could give the luckless tale of each. 
In fact, I lived for many an idle year 
In fond pursuit of agitations dear : 
For ever seeking, ever pleased to find 
The food I sought, I thought not of its kind. 

«« I loved to walk where none had walked before, 
About the rocks that ran along the shore ; 
Or far beyond the sight of men to stray. 
And take my pleasure when I lost my way : 
For then 'twas mine to trace the hilly heath, 
And all the mossy moor that lies beneath. 
Here had I favorite stations, where I stood 
And heard the murmurs of the ocean-flood. 
With not a sound beside, except when flew 
Aloft the lapwing, or the grey curlew. . . . 
When I no more my fancy could employ — • 
I left in haste what I could not enjoy. 
And was my gentle mother's welcome boy." 

The reader is not to suppose, however, that all his 
hours were spent in this agreeable manner. His father 

2* 



18 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

employed him in the warehouse on the quay of Slaugh- 
den, in labors which he abhorred, though he in time 
became tolerably expert in them ; such as piling up but- 
ter and cheese. He said long after, that he remembered 
with regret the fretfulness and indignation wherewith he 
submitted to these drudgeries, in which the Salt-master 
himself often shared. At length an advertisement, head- 
ed " Apprentice wanted," met his ftither's eye ; and 
George was offered, and accepted, to fill the vacant sta- 
tion at Wickham-Brook, a small village near Bury St. 
Edmunds. He left his home and his indulgent mother, 
under the care of two farmers, who were travelling across 
the county ; with whom he parted within about ten 
miles of the residence of his future master, and proceed- 
ed with feelings easily imagined in a low-spirited, gentle 
lad, to seek a strange, perhaps a severe, home. Fatigue 
also contributed to impart its melancholy ; and the recep- 
tion augmented these feelings to bitterness. Just as he 
reached the door, his master's daughters, haying eyed 
him for a few moments, burst into a violent fit of laughter, 
exclaiming, " La ! here 's our new 'prentice." He never 
forgot the deep mortification of that moment ; but justice 
to the ladies compels me to mention, that shortly before 
that period he had had his head shaved during some 
illness, and, instead of the ornamental curls that now 
embellish the shorn, he wore, by his own confession, a 
very ill-made scratch wig. This happened when he was 
in his fourteenth year, in 1768. 

Besides the duties of his profession, *' our new 'pren- 
tice " was often employed in the drudgery of the farm 
— for his master had more occupations than one — and 
was made the bed-fellow and companion of the plough- 



WICKHAM-BROOK — WOODBRIDGE. xg 

boy. How astonished would he have been, when carry- 
ing medicines on foot to Cheveley (a village at a con- 
siderable distance), could he have foreseen that, in a 
very few years, he should take his daily station in that 
same place at a duke's table ! One day as he mixed 
with the herd of lads at the public-house, to see the 
exhibitions of a conjurer, the magician, having worked 
many wonders, changed a white ball to black, exclaim- 
ing — " Quique olim alhus erat nunc est contrarius alho 
— and I suppose none of you can tell me what that 
means." " Yes, I can," said George. " The d — 1 you 
can," replied he of the magic wand, eyeing his garb : 
'* I suppose you picked up your Latin in a turnip field." 
Not daunted by the laughter that followed, he gave the 
interpretation, and received from the seer a condescend- 
ing compliment. 

Whether my father complained of the large portion 
of agricultural tuition he received gratis, I know not; 
but, not being bound by indenture, he was removed, in 
the year 1771, to a more eligible situation, and con- 
cluded his apprenticeship with a Mr. Page, surgeon at 
Woodbridge, a market town seventeen miles from Aid- 
borough. Here he met with companions suitable to his 
mind and habits, and, although he never was fond of his 
destined profession, began to apply to it in earnest. I 
have often heard him speak with pleasure of a small 
society of young men, who met at an inn on certain 
evenings of the v/eek to converse, over a frugal supper, 
on the subjects which they were severally studying. 
One of this rural club was a surgeon of the name of 
Levett, with whom he had had some very early acquaint- 
ance at Aldborough. This friend was at the time 



20 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

paying his addresses to a Miss Brereton, who afterwards 
married a Mr. Lewis, and published, under the name of 
Eugenia de Acton, several novels, which enjoyed a tem- 
porary popularity — "Vicissitudes of Genteel Life," — 
" The Microcosm," — " A Tale without a Title," &lc. 
&c. Miss Brereton's residence was at Framlingham, 
and her great friend and companion was Miss Sarah 
Elmy, then domesticated in the neighbouring village of 
Parham, under the roof of an uncle, Mr. Tovell. Mr. 
Levett said carelessly one day, " Why, George, you shall 
go with me to Parham ; there is a young lady there that 
would just suit you." My father accompanied him ac- 
cordingly on his next " lover's journey," was introduced 
to Miss Brereton and her friend, and spent in their so- 
ciety a day which decided his matrimonial lot in life. * 

He was at this time in his eighteenth year, and had 
already excited the attention of his companions, by his 
attempts in versification — attempts to which it may be 
supposed his love now lent a new impulse, and supplied 
an inexhaustible theme. In an autobiographical sketch, 
published some years ago to accompany a portrait in the 
New Monthly Magazine, he says of himself, " He had, 
with youthful indiscretion, written for publications 
wherein Damons and Delias begin the correspondence 

* William Springall Levett died in 1774 ; and the following 
epitaph, written at the time by Mr. Crabbe, may be worth pre- 
serving : — 

" What ! though no trophies peer above his dust, 
Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust j 
What ! though no earthly thunders sound his name, 
Deatli gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame ; 
One sigh reflection heaves, but shuns excess — 
More should we mourn him, did we love him less." 

Green's History of Framlingham, p. 163. 



WOODBRIDGE. 21 

that does not always end there, and where diffidence is 
nursed till it becomes presumption. There was then a 
Lady's Magazine, published by Mr. Wheble, in which 
our young candidate wrote for a prize on the subject of 
Hope,* — and he had the misfortune to gain it ; in con- 
sequence of which he felt himself more elevated above 
the young men, his companions, who made no verses, 
than it is to be hoped he has done at any time since, 
when he has been able to compare and judge with a 
more moderate degree of self-approbation. He wrote 
upon every occasion, and without occasion ; and, like 
greater men, and indeed like almost every young versi- 
fier, he planned tragedies and epic poems, and began to 
think of succeeding in the highest line of composition, 
before he had made one good and commendable effort 
in the lov/est." 

In fact, even before he quitted his first master at 
Wickham-Brook, he had filled a drawer with verses ; and 
I have now a quarto volume before me, consisting chiefly 
of pieces written at Woodbridge, among which occur 
" The Judgment of the Muse, in the Metre of Spenser," 

* After long- search a copy of Wheble's Magazine for 1772 has 
been discovered, and it contains, besides the prize poem on Hope, 
four other pieces, signed " G. C, Woodbridge, Suffolk : " " To 
Mira," " The Atheist reclaimed," " The Bee," and " An Alle- 
gorical Fable." As might be supposed, there is hardly a line in 
any of these productions which I should be justified in reprinting. 
I shall, however, preserve the conclusion of the prize poem. 

" But, above all, the toet owns thy powers — 
Hope leads him on, and every fear devours ; 
He writes, and, unsuccessful, writes again, 
Nor thinks the last laborious work in vain ; 
New schemes he forms, and various plots he tries, 
To win the laurel, and possess the prize." 



22 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

— " Life, a Poem," — " An Address to the Muse, in 
the Manner of Sir Walter Raleigh," — an ode or two, 
in which he evide itly aims at the style of Cowley, — 
and a profusion of lyrics " To Mira ; " the name under 
which it pleased him to celebrate Sarah Elmy. A 
parody on Shenstone's '* My time, oh ye Muses," opens 
thus : — 

" My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped. 
Ere you or your whimsies got into my head ; 
I could laugh, I could sing, I could trifle and jest, 
"And my heart played a regular tune in my breast. 
But now, lack-a-day ! what a change for the worse, 
'T is as heavy as lead, yet as wild as a horse. 

" My fingers, ere love had tormented my mind, 
Could guide my pen gently to what I designed. 
I could make an enigma, a rebus, or riddle. 
Or tell a short tale of a dog and a fiddle ; 
But since this vile Cupid has got in my brain, 
I beg of the gods to assist in my strain. 
And whatever my subject, the fancy still roves. 
And sings of hearts, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves." 

The poet himself says, in " The Parting Hour," — 

" Minutely trace man's life : year after year. 
Through all his days, let all his deeds appear — 
And then, though some may in that life be strange, 
Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change : 
The links that bind those various deeds are seen. 
And no mysterious void is left between : " — 

but, it must be allowed, that we want several links to 
connect the author of " The Library " with the young 
lover of the above verses, or of - 

"THE WISH. 

'•' My Mira, shepherds, is as fair 

As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale, 



WOODBRIDGE. 23 

As sylphs who dwell in purest air. 

As fays who skim the dusky dale. 
As Venus was when Venus fled 
From watery Triton's oozy hed. 

" My Mira, shepherds, has a voice 

As soft as Syrinx in her grove, 
As sweet as echo makes her choice. 

As mild as whispering virgin-love ; 
As gentle as the winding stream. 
Or fancy's song when poets dream." &c. &c. 

Before, however, he left Woodbridge, Mr. Crabbe not 
only wrote, but found courage and means (the latter I 
know not how) to print and publish at Ipswich a short 
piece, entitled ''Inebriety, a Poem," — in which, how- 
ever rude and unfinished as a whole, there are some 
couplets not deficient in point and terseness, and not a 
little to indicate that devotion to the style of Pope, which 
can be traced through all the maturer labors of his pen. 
The parallel passages from the Dunciad and the Essay 
on Man, quoted in the notes, are frequent ; and to them 
he modestly enough alludes in " The Preface," from 
which, as an early specimen of his prose, it may be 
worth while to extract a paragraph : — 

" Presumption or meanness are both too often the only- 
articles to be discovered in a preface. Whilst one author 
haughtily affects to despise the public attention, another 
timidly courts it. I would no more beg for than disdain 
applause, and therefore should advance nothing in favor of 
the following little Poem, did it not appear a cruelty and 
disregard to send a first production naked into the world. 

"The World! — how presumptuous, and yet how tri- 
fling the sound. Every man, gentle reader, has a world of 
his own, and whether it consists of half a score or half a 



24 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

thousand friends, 't is his, and he loves to boast of it. Into 
my world, therefore, I commit this, my Muse's earliest 
labor, nothing doubting the clemency of the chmate, nor 
fearing the partiality of the censorious. 

" Something by way of apology for this trifle is, perhaps, 
necessary ; especially for those parts wherein I have taken 
such great liberties with Mr. Pope. That gentleman, se- 
cure in immortal fame, would forgive me : forgive me, too, 
my friendly critic ; I promise thee, thou wilt find the ex- 
tracts from that Swan of Thames the best part of the 
performance." 

I may also transcribe a few of the opening couplets, 
in which we have the student of Pope, as well as of 
surgery, and not a few germs of the future Crabbe : — 

" When ^Yinter stern his gloomy front uprears, 
A sable void the barren earth appears ; 
The meads no more their former verdure boast, 
Fast bound their streams, and all their beauty lost. 
The herds, the flocks, in icy garments mourn. 
And wildly murmur for the Spring's return ; 
The fallen branches from the sapless tree. 
With glittering fragments strow the glassy way ; 
From snow-topped hills the whirlwinds keenly blow. 
Howl through the woods, and pierce the vales below ; 
Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, 
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies ; 
The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, 
And shed their substance on the floating air ; 
The floating air their downy substance glides 
Through springing waters, and prevents their tides ; 
Seizes the rolling waves, and as a God, 
Charms their swift race, and stops the refluent flood. 
The opening valves, which fill the venal road. 
Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood. 
The laboring pulse a slower motion rules. 
The tendons stiffen, and the spirit cools ; 



"INEBRIETY, A POEM." 25 

Each asks the aid of Nature's sister, Art, 

To cheer the senses, and to warm the heart. 

'i"he gentle Fair on nervous tea reUes, 

Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes ; 

An inoffensive scandal fluttering round. 

Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound ; 
Champagne the courtier drinks, the spleen to chase, 
The colonel Burgundy, and Port his grace. 

(He was not yet a ducal chaplain.) 

" See Inebriety I her wand she waves, 
And, lo ! her pale — and, lo ! her purple slaves. 
Sots in embroidery, and sots in crape. 
Of every order, station, rank, and shape ; 
The king, who nods upon his rattle-throne, 
The staggering peer, to midnight revel prone ; 
The slow-tongued bishop, and the deacon sly. 
The humble pensioner, and gownsman dry ; 
The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great. 
Swell the dull throng, and stagger into state. 

" Lo ! proud Flaminius at the splendid board. 
The easy chaplain of an atheist lord, 
Quaffs the bright juice, with all the gust of sense. 
And clouds his brain in torpid elegance ; 
In China vases, see ! the sparkling ill ; 
From gay decanters view the rosy rill ; 
The neat-carved pipes in silver settle laid ; 
The screw by mathematic cunning made : 
The whole a pompous and enticing scene. 
And grandly glaring for the surpliced swain ; 
Oh, happy priest I whose God, like Egypt's, lies 
At once the Deity, and sacrifice." 

He, indeed, seems to be particularly fond of " girding 
at " the cloth, which, in those early and thoughtless 
days, he had never dreamed he himself should wear and 
honor. It is only just to let the student of his maturer 
verses and formed character see in what way the careless 
3 



26 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

apprentice could express himself, respecting a class of 
which he could then know nothing. 

" The vicar at the table's front presides, 
Whose presence a monastic life derides ; 
The reverend wig, in sideway order placed, 
The reverend band, by rubric stains disgraced, 
The leering eye, in wayward circles rolled, 
Mark him the Pastor of a jovial fold ; 
Whose various texts excite a loud applause. 
Favoring the bottle, and the Good Old Cause. 
See the dull smile, which fearfully appears, 
When gross Indecency her front uprears. 
The joy concealed the fiercer burns within, 
As masks afford the keenest gust to sin : 
Imagination lielps the reverend sire, 
And spreads the sails of sub-divine, desire — 
But when the gay immoral joke goes round, 
When Shame, and all her blushing train are drowned. 
Rather than hear hii God blasphemed, he takes 
The last loved glass, and then the board forsakes. 
Not that religion prompts the sober thought, 
But slavish custom has the practice taught : 
Besides, this zealous son of warm devotion 
Has a true Levite bias for promotion ; 
Vicars must with discretion go astray, 
Whilst bishops may be d d the nearest way." * 

Such, in his twentieth year, was the poetry of Crabbe. 
His Sarah encouraged him, by her approbation of his 
verses ; and her precept and example were of use to him 
in a minor matter, but still of some importance to a 
young author. His hand-writing had hitherto been 
feeble and bad ; it now became manly, clear, and not 

*" Inebriety, a Poem, in three Parts. Ipswich, printed and sold 
by C. Punchard, Bookseller, in the Butter-Market, 1775. Price 
one shilling and sixpence." 



WOODBRIDGE. 27 

inelegant. Miss Elmy's passion for music induced him 
also to make some efforts in that direction ; but nature 
had given him a poor ear, and, after many a painftil hour 
spent in trying to master " Grammachree " and " Over 
the Water to Charlie," he laid aside his flute in despair. 
To the period of his residence at Woodbridge, I sup- 
pose, may also be assigned the first growth of a more 
lasting passion — that for the study of botany ; which, 
from early life to his latest years, my father cultivated 
with fond zeal, both in books and in the fields. 



28 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

CHAPTER II. 
1775 — 1780. 

TERMINATION OF MR. CRAEBE'S APPRENTICESHIP. VISIT 

TO LONDON. HE SETS UP FOR HIMSELF AT ALDBO- 

ROUGH. FAILURE OF HIS PLANS THERE. HE GIVES 

UP HIS BUSINESS, AND PROCEEDS TO LONDON AS A LIT- 
ERARY ADVENTURER. 

About the end of the year 1775, when he had at 
length completed his term of apprenticeship, Mr, Crabbe 
returned to Aldborough, hoping to find the means of 
repairing to the metropolis, and there to complete his 
professional education. The Salt-master's affairs, how- 
ever, were not in such order that he could at once gratify 
his son's inclination in this respect ; neither could he 
afford to maintain him at home in idleness ; and the 
young man, now accustomed to far different pursuits and 
habits, was obliged to return to the labors of the ware- 
house on Slaughden quay. His pride disdained this 
homely employment ; his spirit rose against what he 
considered arbitrary conduct : he went sullen and angry 
to his work, and violent quarrels often ensued between 
him and his father. He frequently confessed in after- 
times that his behaviour in this affair was unjustifiable, 
and allowed that it was the old man's poverty, not his 
will, that consented to let him wear out any more of his 
days in such ignoble occupation. 

I must add, however, that, before he returned from 
Woodbridge, his father's habits had undergone a very 
unhappy change. In 1774, there was a contested elec- 
tion at Aldborough, and the Whig candidate, Mr. Charles 



ALDBOROUGH. 29 

Long, sought and found a very able and zealous partisan 
and agent in Mr. Crabbe. From that period his family 
dated the loss of domestic comfort, a rooted taste for the 
society of the tavern, and such an increase in the violence 
of his temper, that his meek-spirited wife, now in poor 
health, dreaded to hear his returning footsteps. If the 
food prepared for his meal did not please his fancy, he 
would fling the dishes about the room, and all was 
misery and terror. George was the chief support of his 
afflicted mother, — her friend and her physician. He 
saw that her complaint was dropsical, and, from the first, 
anticipated the fatal result which, after a i^ew years of 
suffering, ensued. One of his favorite employments was 
to catch some small fish called " buts," the only thing 
for which she could muster a little appetite, for her 
nightly meal. He was in all things her dutiful comfort- 
er ; and it may be supposed that, under such circum- 
stances, he was not sometimes able to judge favorably of 
her husband's conduct, even where there might be 
nothing really blameworthy in it. To him, he acknowl- 
edged his father had always been " substantially kind." 
His leisure hours were spent in the study of botany, 
and other branches of natural history ; and, perhaps, the 
ill success of '•' Inebriety " had no small share in with- 
drawing him, for a time, from the practice of versifica- 
tion. He appears, indeed, to have had, at this period, 
every disposition to pursue his profession with zeal. 
*' The time," he says, in the sketch already quoted, 
" had come, when he was told, and believed, that he had 
more important concerns to engage him than verse ; and 
therefore, for some years, though he occasionally found 
time to write lines upon ' Mira's Birthday ' and ' Silvia's 
3* 



30 LIFEOFCRABBE. 

Lapdog,' though he composed enigmas and solved re- 
buses, he had some degree of forbearance, and did not 
believe that the knowledge of diseases, and the sciences 
of anatomy and physiology, were to be acquired by the 
perusal of Pope's Homer, and a Treatise on the Art of 
Poetry." 

His professional studies, in the mean time continued 
to be interrupted by other things than the composition of 
trifles for a corner of Wheble's Magazine; and the mor- 
tifications he daily underwent may be guessed at from 
the following incident, v*^hich he used to relate, even in 
his old age, with deep feeling. One of his Woodbridge 
acquaintances, now a smart young surgeon, came over 
to Aldborough, on purpose to see him : he was directed 
to the quay of Slaughden, and there discovered George 
Crabbe, piling up butter-casks, in the dress of a common 
warehouseman. The visiter had the vanity and cruelty 
to despise the honest industry of his friend, and to say to 
him, in a stern, authoritative tone, — " Follow me. Sir." 
George followed him at a respectful distance, until they 
reached the inn, where he was treated with a long and 
angry lecture, inculcating pride and rebellion. He heard 
it in sad silence : his spirit was, indeed, subdued, but 
he refused to take any decided step in opposition to his 
parent's will, or rather the hard necessities of his case. 
" My friends," said my father, in concluding this story, 
** had always an ascendancy over me." I may venture 
to add, that this was the consequence purely of the gen- 
tle warmth of his affections ; for he was at heart as brave 
as affectionate. Never was there a more hopeless task 
than to rule him by intimidation. 



ALDBOROUGH. 31 

After he had lingered at Aldborough for a considerable 
time, his father made an effort to send him to London, 
and he embarked in one of the trading sloops at Slaugh- 
den quay, ostensibly to walk the hospitals, and attend 
medical lectures in customary form, but in reality with a 
purse too slenderly provided to enable him to do this ; 
and, in short, with the purpose, as he said, of " picking 
up a little surgical knowledge as cheap as he could." 
He took up his quarters in the house of an Aldborough 
family, humble tradespeople, who resided somewhere in 
Whitechapel ; and continued there for about eight or 
ten months, until his small resources were exhausted, 
when he returned once more to Suffolk, but little, I 
suspect, the better for the desultory sort of instruction 
that had alone been within his reach. Among other 
distresses of this time, he had, soon after he reached 
London, a narrow escape from being carried before the 
Lord Mayor as a resurrectionist. His landlady, having 
discovered that he had a dead child in his closet for the 
purpose of dissection, took it into her head that it was 
no other than an infant whom she had had the misfor- 
tune to lose the week before. " Dr. Crabbe had dug up 
William ; she was certain he had ; and to the Mansion- 
house he must go." Fortunately the countenance of the 
child had not yet been touched with the knife. The 
" doctor " arrived when the tumult was at its height, and, 
opening the closet door, at once established his inno- 
cence of the charge. 

On his return to Aldborough, he engaged himself as 
an assistant in the shop of a Mr. Maskill, who had 
lately commenced business there as a surgeon and apoth- 
ecary, — a stern and powerful man. Mr. Crabbe, the 



32 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

first time lie had occasion to write his name, chanced to 
misspell it Mashoell ; and this gave great oflence. 
" D — n you, Sir," he exclaimed, " do you take me for 
a proficient in deception? Mask-i7/ — Mask-?'//; and 
so you shall find me." He assumed a despotic authority 
which the assistant could ill brook ; and yet, conscious 
how imperfectly he was grounded in the commonest 
details of the profession, he was obliged to submit in 
silence to a new series of galling vexations. Nor was 
his situation at all improved, when, at the end of some 
miserable months, Mr. Maskill transferred his practice 
to another town, and he was encouraged to set up for 
himself in Aldborough. 

He dearly loved liberty, and he was now his own 
master ; and, above all, he could now more frequently 
visit Miss Elmy, at Parham : but the sense of a new 
responsibility pressed sorely and continually on his mind; 
and he never awoke, without shuddering at the thought, 
that some operation of real difficulty might be thrown 
in his way before night. Ready sharpness of mind and 
mechanical cleverness of hand are the first essentials in 
a surgeon ; and he wanted them both, and knew his de- 
ficiencies far better than any one else did. He had, 
moreover, a clever and active opponent in the late Mr. 
Raymond ; and the practice which fell to his share was 
the poorest the place afforded. His very passion for 
botany was injurious to him ; for his ignorant patients, 
seeing him return from his walks with handfuls of weeds, 
decided that, as Dr. Crabbe got his medicines in the 
ditches, he could have little claim for payment. On the 
other hand, he had many poor relations ; and some of 
these, old women, were daily visiters, to request " some- 



ALDBOROUGH. 33 

thing comfortable from cousin George ; " that is to say, 
doses of the most expensive tonics in his possession. 

" If once induced these cordial sips to try, 
All feel the ease, and few the danger fly ; 
For while obtained, of drams they 've all the force, 
And when denied, then drams are the resource." 

Add to all this, that the poor leech was a lover, separated 
from his mistress, and that his heart was in the land of 
imagination — for he had now resumed his pen — and 
it is not wonderful that he soon began to despair alto- 
gether of succeeding in his profession. 

Yet there was a short period when fortune seemed 
somewhat more favorable to him, even in Aldborough. 
In the summer of 1778, the Warwickshire militia were 
quartered in the town, and his emoluments were con- 
siderably improved in consequence. He had also the 
pleasure of finding his society greatly estimated by the 
officers, and formed a very strong friendship with one 
of them, Lieutenant Hayward, a highly promising young 
gentleman, who afterwards died in the East Indies. 
The Colonel — afterwards the celebrated field-marshal, 
Conway — took much notice of Mr. Crabbe ; and among 
other marks of his attention, was the gift of some valu- 
able Latin works on the favorite subject of Botany, 
which proved of advantage to him in more ways than 
one : for the possession of them induced him to take up 
more accurately than heretofore the study of the lan- 
guage in which they were composed ; and the hours he 
now spent on Hudson's " Flora Anglica"* enabled him 

* In one of his early Note-books he has wiitten : — 

" Ah ! blest be the days when with Mira I took 
The learning of Love 



34 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

to enjoy Horace, and to pass with credit through certain 
examinations of an after-period. The winter following, 
the Warwick militia were replaced by the Norfolk ; and 
Mr. Crabbe had the good fortune to be, for a time, their 
medical attendant also, and to profit, as before, by the 
society of educated gentlemen, who appreciated his 
worth, and were interested and pleased with his conver- 
sation. 

This was a passing gleam of sunshine ; but the chief 
consolation of all his distresses at this period, was the 
knowledge that he had gained a faithful and affectionate 
heart at Parham, and the virtuous and manly love which 
it was his nature to feel, imparted a buoyancy to his 
spirits in the very midst of his troubles. His taste and 
manners were different from those of the family with 
whom Miss Elmy resided, and he was at first barely tole- 
rated. Tlie uncle, Mr. Tovell, a wealthy yeoman of 
the highest class so denominated, — a class ever jealous 
of the privileges of literature, — would now and then 
growl in the hearing of his guest, — " What good does 
their d d learning do them?" By degrees, his ster- 
ling worth made its due impression : he was esteemed, 
then beloved, by them all ; but still he had every now 
and then to put up with a rough sneer about " the 
d d learning." 

Miss Elmy occasionally visited her mother at Beccles ; 
and here my father found a society more adapted to his 

When we pluck'd Uie wili blossoms that blush'd in the grass, 
And I tau;^ht my dear maid of their species and class ; 
For Conway, the friend of mankind, had decreed 
That HuJson should show us the wealth of the mead." 

Mr. Conway's character is familiar to every reader of his cousin 
Horace Walpole's Letters. 



ALDBOROUGH. 35 

acquiremerts. The family had, though in apparently 
humble circumstances, always been numbered among 
the gentry of the place, and possessed education and 
manners that entitled them to this distinction.* It was 
in his walks between Aldborough and Beccles that Mr. 
Crabbe passed through the very scenery described in the 
first part of " The Lover's Journey ; " while near Bec- 
cles, in another direction, he found the contrast of rich 
vegetation introduced in the latter part of that tale ; nor 
have I any doubt that the disappointmejit of the story 
figures out something that, on one of these visits, befell 
himself, and the feelings with which he received it. 

" Gone to a friend, she tells me. — I commend 
Her purpose : — means she to a female friend 7 " &c. 

For truth compels me to say, that he was by no means 
free from the less amiable si^n of a strong attachment — 
jealousy. The description of tliis self-torment, which 
occurs in the sixth book of " Tales of the Hall," could 
only have been produced by one \\ ho had undergone the 
pain himself; and the catastrophe which follows may be 
considered as a vivid representation of his happier hours 
at Beccles. Miss Elmy was then remarkably pretty ; 
she had a lively disposition, and, having generally more 
than her share of attention in a mixed company, her 
behaviour might, without any coquettish inclination, 
occasion painful surmises in a sensitive lover, Vv^ho could 
only at intervals join her circle. 

In one of these visiis to Beccles, my father was in the 
most imminent danger of losing liis life. Having, on a 

* Miss Elmy's father was now no more. He had been a tanner 
at Beccles, but failed in his business, and went to Guadaloupe, 
where he died some time before Mr. Crabbe knew the family. 



36 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

sultry summer's day, rowed his Sarah to a favorite fish- 
ing spot on the river Waveney, he left her busy with the 
rod and line, and withdrew to a retired place about a 
quarter of a mile off, to bathe. Not being a swimmer, 
nor calculating his depth, he plunged at once into dan- 
ger ; for his foot slid on the soft mud towards the centre 
of the stream. He made a rush for the bank, lost his 
footing, and the flood boiled over his head : he struggled, 
but in vain ; and his own words paint his situation : — 

" An undefined sensation stopped my breath ; 
Disordered views and threatening signs of death 
Met in one moment, and a terror gave 

I cannot paint it — to the moving grave : 

My thoughts were all distressing, hurried, mixed, 
On all things fixing, not a moment fixed. 
Brother, I have not — man has not the power 
To paint the horrors of that life-long hour ; 
Hour ! — but of time I knew not — when I found 
Hope, youth, life, love, and all they promised, drowned." 

Tales of the Hall. 

My father could never clearly remember how he was 
saved. He at last found himself grasping some weeds, 
and by their aid reached the bank. 

Mr. and Mrs. Crabbe, cordially approving their son's 
choice, invited Miss Elmy to pass some time beneath 
their roof at Aldborough ; and my father had the satis- 
faction to witness the kindness with which she was 
treated by both his parents, and the commencement of a 
stronor attachment between her and his sister. During 
this visit* he was attacked by a very dangerous fever; 

* At this period the whole family were still living together. 
Some time after, my father and his sister had separate lodgings, at a 
Mr. Aldrich's. 



PARHAM. 37 

and the attention of his affianced wife was unwearied. 
So much was his mind weakened by the violence and 
pertinacity of this disorder, that, on his dawning conva- 
lescence, he actually cried like a child, because he was 
considerately denied the food which his renovated stom- 
ach longed for. I have heard them laugh heartily at the 
tears he shed, because Sarah and his sister refused him 
a lobster on which he had set his affections. For a con- 
siderable time, he was unable to walk upright ; but he 
was at length enabled to renew, with my mother, his 
favorite rambles — to search for fuci on the shore, or to 
botanise on the heath : and again he expresses his own 
feelings, in the following passage of " The Borough : " — 

" See ! one relieved from anguish, and to-day- 
Allowed to walk, and look an hour away. 
Two months confined by fever, frenzy, pain, 
He comes abroad, and is himself again. 
He stops, as one unwilling to advance. 
Without another and another glance. . . . 
With what a pure and simple joy he sees 
Those sheep and cattle browsing at their ease ! 
Easy himself, there 's nothing breathes or moves, 
But he would cherish ; — all that lives he loves." 

On Miss Elmy's return to Parham, she was seized 
with the same or a kindred disorder, but still more vio- 
lent and alarming ; and none of her friends expected 
her recovery. My father was kindly invited to remain 
in the house. A fearful delirium succeeded : all hope 
appeared irrational ; and then it was that he felt the bit- 
terness of losing a fond and faithful heart. I remember 
being greatly affected, at a very early period, by hearing 
him describe the feelings with which he went into a 
small garden her uncle had given her, to water her flow- 
4 



38 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

ers; intending, after her death, to take them to Aldbo- 
rough, and keep them for ever. The disorder at last 
took a favorable turn. 

But a calamity of the severest kind awaited her uncle 
and aunt. Their only child, a fine hale girl of fourteen, 
humored by her mother, adored by her father, was cut 
off in a few days by an inflammatory sore throat. Her 
parents were bowed down to the earth ; so sudden and 
unexpected was the blow. It made a permanent altera- 
tion at Parham. Mr. Tovell's health declined from that 
period, though he lived many years with a broken spirit. 
Mrs. Tovell, a busy, bustling character, who scorned the 
exhibition of what she termed " fine feelings," became 
for a time an altered woman, and, like Agag, " walked 
softly." I have heard my father describe his astonish- 
ment at learning, as he rode into the stable-yard, that 
Miss Tovell was dead. It seemed as if it must be a 
fiction, so essential did her life appear to her parents. 
He said he never recollected to have felt any dread 
equal to that of entering the house on this occasion ; for 
my mother might now be considered as, in part at least, 
Mr. Tovell's heir, and he anticipated the reception he 
should meet with, and well knew what she must suffer 
from the first bitterness of minds too uncultivated to sup- 
press their feelings. He found it as painful as he had 
foreboded. Mr. Tovell was seated in his arm-chair, in 
stern silence ; but the tears coursed each other over his 
manly face. His wife was weeping violently, her head 
reclining on the table. One or two female friends were 
there, to offer consolation. After a long silence, Mr. 
Tovell observed, — "She is now out o^ every body's 
way, poor girl ! " One of the females remarked, that it 



PARHAM. 39 

was wrong, very wrong, to grieve, because she was gone 
to a better place. " How do I know where she is gone?" 
was the bitter reply ; and then there was another long 
silence. 

But, in the course of time, these gloomy feelings sub- 
sided. Mr. Crabbe was received as usual, nay, with 
increased kindness ; for he had known their " dear 
Jane." But though the hospitality of the house was un- 
diminished, and occasionally the sound of loud, joyous 
mirth was heard, yet the master was never himself 
again. 

Whether my father's more frequent visits to Parham, 
growing dislike to his profession, or increasing attach- 
ment to poetical composition, contributed most to his 
ultimate abandonment of medicine, I do not profess to 
tell. I have said, that his spirit was buoyed up by the 
inspiring influence of requited affection ; but this neces- 
sarily led to other wishes, and to them the obstacles 
appeared insuperable. Miss Elmy was too prudent to 
marry, where there seemed to be no chance of a compe- 
tent livelihood ; and he, instead of being in a position to 
maintain a family, could hardly, by labor which he ab- 
horred, earn daily bread for himself He was proud, too ; 
and, though conscious that he had not deserved success 
in his profession, he was also conscious of possessing no 
ordinary abilities, and brooded with deep mortification on 
his failure. Meantime he had perused with attention the 
works of the British poets and of his favorite Horace ; 
and his desk had gradually been filled with verses which 
he justly esteemed more worthy of the public eye than 
" Inebriety." He indulged, in short, the dreams of a 
young poet. 



40 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

" A little time, and he should burst to light, 
And admiration of the world excite ; 
And every friend, now cool and apt to blame 
His fond pursuit, would wonder at his fame. 
' Fame shall be mine ; — then wealth shall I possess ; — 
And beauty next an ardent lover bless.' " 

The Patron. 

He deliberated often and long, — " resolved and re- 
resolved," — and again doubted ; but, well aware as he 
was of the hazard he was about to encounter, he at last 
made up his mind. One gloomy day, towards the close 
of the year 1779, he had strolled to a bleak and cheer- 
less part of the cliff above Aldborough, called " The 
Marsh Hill," brooding, as he went, over the humiliating 
necessities of his condition, and plucking every now and 
then, I have no doubt, the hundredth specimen of some 
common weed. He stopped opposite a shallow, muddy 
piece of water, as desolate and gloomy as his own mind, 
called " The Leech-pond," and " it was while I gazed on 
it," — he said to my brother and me, one happy morning 
— " that I determined to go to London and venture all." 
In one of his early note-books, under the date of De- 
cember 31, 1779, I find the following entry. It is one 
upon which I shall offer no comment : — 

" A thousand years, most adored Creator, are, in thy 
sight, as one day. So contract, in my sight, my calamities ! 

" The year of sorrow and care, of poverty and disgrace, 
of disappointment and wrong, is now passing on to join the 
Eternal. Now, O Lord ! let, I beseech thee, my afflictions 
and prayers be remembered ; — let my faults and follies be 
forgotten ! 

" O thou, who art the Fountain of Happiness, give me 
better submission to thy decrees ; better disposition to cor- 



ALDBOROUGH. 41 

rect my flattering hopes ; better courage to bear up under 
my state of oppression. 

" The year past, O my God ! let it not be to me again 
a torment — the year coming, if it is thy will, be it never 
such. Nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt. 
Whether I live or whether I die, whether I be poor or 
whether I be prosperous, O my Saviour ! may I be thine ! 
Amen." 

In the autobiographical sketch already quoted, my 
father thus continues his story : — " Mr. Crabbe, after 
as full and perfect a survey of the good and evil before 
him as his prejudices, inclinations, and little knowledge 
of the world enabled him to take, finally resolved to 
abandon his profession. His health was not robust, his 
spirits were not equal ; assistance he could expect none, 
and he was not so sanguine as to believe he could do 
without it. With the best verses he could write, and 
with very little more, he quitted the place of his birth ; 
not without the most serious apprehensions of the conse- 
quence of such a step, — apprehensions which were 
conquered, and barely conquered, by the more certain 
evil of the prospect before him, should he remain where 
he was. 

" When he thus fled from a gloomy prospect to one as 
uncertain, he had not heard of a youthful adventurer, 
whose fate it is probable would, in some degree, have 
aflected his spirits, if it had not caused an alteration in 
his purpose. Of Chatterton, his extraordinary abilities, 
his enterprising spirit, his writing in periodical publica- 
tions, his daring project, and his melancholy fate, he 
had yet learned nothing ; otherwise it may be supposed 
that a warning of such a kind would have had no small 
4=* 



42 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

influence upon a mind rather vexed with the present 
than expecting much from the future, and not sufficiently 
happy and at ease to draw consolation from vanity — 
much less from a comparison in which vanity would have 
found no trifling mortification." * 

When his father was at length informed that he felt it 
to be of no use to struggle longer against the difficulties 
of his situation, the old man severely reproached him 
with the expenses the family had incurred, in order to 
afford him an opening into a walk of life higher than 
their own ; but when he, in return, candidly explained 
how imperfectly he had ever been prepared for the exer- 
cise of his profession, the Salt-master in part admitted 
the validity of his representation, and no further opposed 
his resolution. 

But the means of carrying this resolution into effect 
were still to seek. His friends were all as poor as him- 
self; and he knew not where to apply for assistance. 
In this dilemma, he at length addressed a letter to the 
late Mr. Dudley North, brother to the candidate for 
Aldborough, requesting the loan of a small sum ; " and 
a very extraordinary letter it was," said Mr. North to 
his petitioner some years afterwards : " I did not hesi- 
tate for a moment." 

* " Talking," says my brother John, " of the difficulties of his 
early years, when, with adecUning practice, riding from one cottage 
to another, and glad to relieve his mind by fixing it on the herbs 
that grew on the way-side, he often made the assertion, which I 
could never agree to, that it was necessity that drove him to be an 
author ; — and more than once he quoted the line — 
' Some fall so hard that they rebound again.' " 



ALDBOROUGH. 43 

The sum advanced by Mr. North, in compliance with 
his request, was Jive pounds ; and, after settling his 
affairs at Aldborough, and embarking himself and his 
whole worldly substance on board a sloop at Slaughden, 
to seek his fortune in the Great City, he found himself 
master of a box of clothes, a small case of surgical in- 
struments, and three pounds in money. During the 
voyage he lived with the sailors of the vessel, and par- 
took of their fare. 

In looking back to the trifling incidents which I have 
related in this chapter, I feel how inadequate is the con- 
ception they will convey of feelings so deep and a mind 
so exuberant. These were the only circumstances that 
I heard him or others mention relative to that early 
period ; but how different would have been the descrip- 
tion, had he himself recorded the strongest of his early 
impressions ! Joining much of his father's violence with 
a keen susceptibility of mortification, his mind must have 
been at times torn by tumultuous passions ; always tem- 
pered, however, by the exceeding kindness of his heart. 
There can scarcely be a more severe trial than for one 
conscious of general superiority to find himself an object 
of contempt, for some real and palpable defects. With 
a mind infinitely above his circumstances, he was yet 
incompetent to his duties, both in talent and knowledge ; 
and he felt that the opinion of the public, in this respect, 
was but too just. Nor were those the only trials he had to 
endure ; but the strong and painful feelings to which he 
was subjected in the very outset of life, however distress- 
ing then, were unquestionably favorable to his education 
as a poet, and his moral character as a man. 



44 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

The following lines, from a manuscript volume, appear- 
ed to have been composed after he had, on this occasion, 
bidden farewell to Miss Elmy : — 

" The hour arrived ; I sighed and said, 
How soon the happiest hours are fled ! 
On wings of down they lately flew. 
But then their moments passed with you ; 
And still with you could I but be. 
On downy wings they 'd always flee. 

" Say, did you not, the way you went. 
Feel the soft balm of gay content ? 
Say, did you not all pleasures find. 
Of which you left so few behind ? 
I think you did : for well I know 
My parting prayer would make it so ! 

" May she, I said, life's choicest goods partake ; 
Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake — 
The bliss of one, the esteemed of many live. 
With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give I " 

I shall conclude this chapter with the stronger verses 
in which he, some months after, expressed the gloomier 
side of his feelings on quitting his native place — the 
very verses, he had reason to believe^ which first satisfied 
Burke that he was a true poet : — 

" Here wandering long, amid these frowning fields 
I sought the simple life that Nature yields ; 
Rapine, and wrong, and fear usurped her place. 
And a bold, artful, surly, savage race, 
Who, only skilled to take the finny tribe. 
The yearly dinner, or septennial bribe. 
Wait on the shore, and, as the waves run high. 
On the tost vessel bend their eager eye. 
Which to their coast directs its venturous way. 
Theirs or the ocean's miserable prey. 



ALDBO ROUGH. 45 

As on their neighbouring beach yon swallows stand, 
And wait for favoring winds to leave the land, 
While still for flight the ready wing is spread — 
So waited I the favoring hour, and fled : 
Fled from these shores, where guilt and rapine reign, 
And cried, Ah ! hapless they who still remain, — 
Who still remain to hear the ocean roar, 
Whose greedy waves devour the lessening shore, 
Till some fierce tide, with more imperious sway, 
Sweeps the low hut and all it holds away, 
When the sad tenant weeps from door to door. 
And begs a poor protection from the poor." 

The Villase. 



46 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

CHAPTER III. 
1780. 

MR. CRABEE'S difficulties AND DISTRESSES IN LONDON. 

"—PUBLICATION OF HIS POEM, " THE CANDIDATE." 

HIS UNSUCCESSFUL APPLICATIONS TO LORD NORTH, LORD 

SHELBURNE, AND OTHER EMINENT INDIVIDUALS. HIS 

" JOURNAL TO MIRA." 

Although the chance of his being so successful in 
his metropolitan debut as to find in his literary talents 
the means of subsistence must have appeared slender in 
the eyes of Mr. Crabbe's Suffolk friends, and although 
he himself was any thing but sanguine in his anticipa- 
tions ; — yet it must be acknowledged, that he arrived 
in London at a time not unfavorable for a new candidate 
in poetry. The field may be said to have lain open be- 
fore him. The giants Swift and Pope had passed away, 
leaving each in his department examples never to be 
excelled ; but the style of each had been so long imitated 
by inferior persons, that the world was not unlikely to 
welcome some one who should strike into a newer path. 
The strong and powerful satirist, Churchill, the classic 
Gray, and the inimitable Goldsmith, had also departed ; 
and, more recently still, Chatterton had paid the bitter 
penalty of his imprudence, under circumstances which 
must surely have rather disposed the patrons of talent 
to watch the next opportunity that might offer itself of 
encouraging genius " by poverty depressed." The stu- 
pendous Johnson, unrivalled in general literature, had, 
from an early period, withdrawn himself from poetry. 
Cowper, destined to fill so large a space in the public 



LONDON. 47 

eye, somewhat later, had not as yet appeared as an au- 
thor ; * and as for Burns, he was still unknown beyond the 
obscure circle of his fellow-villagers. The moment, there- 
fore, might appear favorable for Mr. Crabbe's meditated 
appeal ; f and yet, had he foreseen all the sorrows and 
disappointments which awaited him in his new career, it 
is probable he would either have remained in his native 
place, or, if he had gone to London at all, engaged him- 
self to beat the mortar in some dispensary. Happily, his 
hopes ultimately prevailed over his fears : his Sarah 
cheered him by her approbation of his bold adventure ; 
and his mind soared and exulted when he suddenly felt 
himself freed from the drudgery and anxieties of his 
hated profession. 

In his own little biographical sketch he says, that, 
" on relinquishing every hope of rising in his profession, 
he repaired to the metropolis, and resided in lodgings 
with a family in the city : for reasons which he might 
not himself be able to assign, he was afraid of going to 
the west end of the town. He was placed, it is true, 

* Cowper's first publication was in 1782, when he was in the 
fiftieth year of his age. 

t I find these lines in one of his note-hooks for 17S0 : — 

" When summer's tribe, her rosy tribe, are fled, 
And drooping beauty mourns her blossoms shed, 
Some humbler sweet may cheer the pensive swain, 
And simpler beauties deck the withering plain. 
And thus when Verse her wintery prospect weeps. 
When Pope is gone and mighty Milton sleeps. 
When Gray in lofty lines has ceased to soar. 
And gentle Goldsmith charms the town no more, 
An humbler Bard the widowed Muse invites. 
Who led by hope and inclination writes : 
With half their art, he tries the soul to move. 
And swell the softer strain with themes of love." 



48 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

near to some friends of whose kindness he was assured, 
and was probably loth to lose that domestic and cheerful 
society which he doubly felt in a world of strangers." 

The only acquaintance he had on entering London 
was a Mrs. Burcham, who had been in early youth a 
friend of Miss Elmy, and who was now the wife of a 
linen-draper in Cornhill. This worthy woman and her 
husband received him with cordial kindness ; they in- 
vited him to make their house his home whenever he 
chose ; and as often as he availed himself of this invita- 
tion, he was treated with that frank familiarity which 
cancels the appearance of obligation. It might be sup- 
posed, that with such friends to lean upon, he would 
have been secure against actual distress ; but his was, 
in some points, a proud spirit : he never disclosed to 
them the extent of his difficulties. Nothing but sheer 
starvation could ever have induced him to do so ; and 
not even that, as long as there was a poor-house in the 
land to afford him refuge. All they knew was that he 
had come to town a literary adventurer : but, though 
ignorant of the exact nature of his designs, as well as of 
the extreme narrowness of his pecuniary resources, they 
often warned him of the fate of Chatterton — of whose 
genius and misfortunes, as we have seen, he had never 
heard while he remained in Suffolk. 

To be near these friends, he took lodgings close to the 
Exchange, in the house of Mr. Vickery,* a hair-dresser, 
then or soon afterwards of great celebrity in his calling ; 

" Mr. Vickery is still in life, a most respectable octogenarian. 
He laments that his memory retains little of Mr. Crabbe, except 
that he was " a quiet, amiable, genteel young man ; much esteem- 
ed by the family for the regularity of all his conduct." 



LONDON. 49 

and on the family's removing some months later to Bish- 
opsgate Street, he accompanied them to their new 
residence. I may mention that, so little did he at first 
foresee the distress in which a shilling would be precious, 
that on taking up his quarters at Mr. Vickery's, he 
equipped himself with a fashionable tie-wig, which must 
have made a considerable hole in his three pounds. 
However, no sooner had he established himself here, 
than he applied, with the utmost diligence, to the pur- 
suits for which he had sacrificed every other prospect. 
He had soon transcribed and corrected the poetical pieces 
he had brought with him from the country ; and com- 
posed two dramas and a variety of prose essays, in imita- 
tion, some of Swift, others of Addison ; and he was ere 
long in communication with various booksellers with a 
view to publication. '* In this lodging," says the poet's 
own sketch, " he passed something more than one year, 
during which his chief study was to improve in versifi- 
cation, to read all such books as he could command, and 
to take as full and particular a view of mankind, as his 
time and finances enabled him to do." 

While residing in the city he often spent his evening 
at a small coffee-house near the Exchange, where, if 
prudence allowed only the most frugal refreshment, he 
had a more gratifying entertainment in the conversation 
of several young men, most of them teachers of mathe- 
matics, who, in his own words, " met after the studies 
and labors of the day, to commence other studies and 
labors of a lighter and more agreeable kind ; and then 
it was," he continues, " that Mr. Crabbe experienced 
the inestimable relief which one mind may administer 
to another. He particularly acknowledges his obligations 
5 



50 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

to Mr. Bonnycastle, the" (late) " Master of the Military 
Academy at Woolwich, for many hours of consolation, 
amusement, and instruction." With Mr. Bonnycastle 
he formed a close intimacy and attachment ; and those 
who are acquainted with the character of that respected 
man will easily imagine the pleasure and advantage Mr. 
Crabbe must have derived from his society. To emi- 
nence in his own vocation he joined much general 
knowledge, considerable taste in the fine arts,* collo- 
quial talents of a higli order, and a warm and enlarged 
heart. Another of this little company was Mr. Isaac 
Dal by, afterwards professor of mathematics in the Mili- 
tary College at PJarlow, and employed by the Ordnance 
department on the trigonometrical survey of England and 
Whales ; and a third was the well-known mathematician, 
Reuben Burrow, originally a merchant's clerk in the 
City, who subsequently rose to high distinction in the 
service of the East India Company, and died in 1791, 
while engaged in the trigonometrical survey of Bengal. 

These then obscure but eminently gifted and worthy 
men were Mr. Crabbe's chosen companions, and to listen 
to their instructive talk was the most refreshing relaxation 
of his manly and vigorous mind : but bodily exercise 
was not less necessary for a frame which, at that 
period, was any thing but robust, and he often walked 
with Mr. Bonnycastle, when he went to the various 
schools in the suburbs, but still more frequently strolled 

* At one time, Mr. Bonnycastle was employed to revise and cor- 
rect a MS. of Cowper ; but be and that poet did not agree in their 
tastes — Mr. Bonnycastle being a staunch advocate for the finish 
and polish of Pope, while the other had far different models in 
higher estimation. 



LONDON. 5t 

alone into the country, with a small edition of Ovid, or 
Horace, or Catullus in his pocket. Two or three of 
these little volumes remained in his possession in latter 
days, and he set a high value on them ; for, said he, 
" they were the companions of my adversity." His fa- 
vorite haunt was Hornsey-wood, and there he often 
renewed his old occupation of searching for plants and 
insects. On one occasion, he had walked farther than 
usual into the country, and felt himself too much ex- 
hausted to return to town. He could not afford to give 
himself any refreshment at a public house, much less to 
pay for a lodging ; so he stretched himself on a mow of 
hay, beguiled the evening with Tibullus, and, when he 
could read no longer, slept there till the morning. Such 
were his habits and amusements ; nor do I believe that 
he ever saw the inside of a theatre, or of any public 
building, but a church or chapel, until the pressing 
difficulties of his situation had been overcome. When, 
many years afterwards, Mr. Bonnycastle was sending his 
son to London, he strongly enforced upon the young 
gentleman the early example of his friend, Mr. Crabbe, 
then enjoying the success of his second series of poems. 
'' Crabbe," said he, '' never suffered his attention to be 
diverted for a moment by the novelties with which he 
was surrounded at that trying period ; but gave his whole 
mind to the pursuit by which he was then striving to 
live, and by which he in due time attained to competence 
and honor." 

When my father had completed some short pieces in 
verse, he offered them for publication ; but they were 
rejected. He says in his sketch, " He was not encour- 
aged by the reception which his manuscripts experienced 



52 LIFEOFCRABBE. 

from those who are said to be not the worst judges of 
literary composition. He was, indeed, assured by a 
bookseller, who afterwards published for him, that he 
must not suppose that the refusal to purchase proceeded 
from a want of merit in the poems. Such, however, was 
his inference, and that thought had the effect which it 
ought, — he took more pains, and tried new subjects. In 
one respect he was unfortunate : while preparing a more 
favorable piece for the inspection of a gentleman whom 
he had then in view, he hazarded the publication of an 
anonymous performance, and had the satisfaction of 
hearing, in due time, that something (not much, indeed, 
— but a something was much,) would arise from it ; but 
while he gathered encouragement, and looked forward to 
more than mere encouragement from this essay, the pub- 
lisher failed, and his hope of profit was as transitory as 
the fame of his nameless production." 

This production* was "The Candidate, a Poetical 
Epistle to the Authors of the Monthly Review," which 
was published early in 1780, by " H. Payne, opposite 
Marlborough House, Pall Mall ; " a thin quarto of 34 
pages, and bearing on the title-page a motto from 
Horace ; — " Multa quidem nobis facimus mala saepe 
poetoe," &LC. It was a call on the attention, not an 
appeal from the verdict, of those whom he considered 
the most influential critics of the time; and it received, 
accordingly, a very cold and brief notice in their number 
for August ; wherein, indeed, nothing is dwelt upon but 

* There was no name in its title-page : the author, however 
hinted his name : — 

" Our Mira's name in future times shall shine, 
And shepherds — though the harshest — envy mine." — p. 91. 



LONDON. 53 

some incorrectness of rhymes, and " that material defect, 
the want of a proper subject." Nor was the Gentleman's 
Magazine more courteous. " If," said Mr. Urban, " the 
authors addressed agree with us in their estimate, they 
will not give this Candidate much encouragement to 
stand a poll at Parnassus." 

The failure of Mr. Payne plunged the young poet into 
great perplexity. He was absolutely under the necessity 
of seeking some pecuniary aid ; and he cast his eyes in 
succession on several of those eminent individuals who 
were then generally considered as liberal patrons of lite- 
rature. Before he left Aid borough he had been advised 
to apply to the premier, Lord North ; but he now applied 
to him in vain. A second application to Lord Shelburne 
met with no better success ; and he often expressed in 
later times the feelings with which he contrasted his 
reception at this nobleman's door, in Berkeley-square, in 
1780,^ with the courteous welcome which he received at a 
subsequent period in that same mansion, now Lansdowne 
House. He wrote also several times to the Lord Chan- 
cellor Thurlow ; but with little better fortune. To the 
first letter, which enclosed a copy of verses, his Lordship 
returned for answer a cold polite note, regretting that his 
avocations did not leave him leisure to read verses. The 
great talents and discriminating judgment of Thurlow 
made him feel this repulse with double bitterness ; and 
he addressed to his Lordship some strong but not dis- 
respectful lines, intimating that, in former times, the 
encouragement of literature had been considered as a 
duty appertaining to the illustrious station he held. Of 
this effusion the Chancellor took no notice whatever. 
5# 



54 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

But I have it in my power to submit to the reader 
some fragments of a Journal which my father kept 
during this distressing period, for the perusal of his 
affianced wife. The manuscript was discovered lately 
in the possession of a sister of my mother's. My father 
had never mentioned the existence of any such treasure 
to his own family. It is headed " The Poet's Journal ; " 
and J now transcribe it ; interweaving, as it proceeds, a 
few observations, which occur to me as necessary to 
make it generally intelligible. 

"THE POET'S JOURNAL." 

" ' Sunt lachrimas rerum, et meutem mortalia tangunt.' 

" ' He felt whate'er of sorrows wound the soul. 
But viewed Misfortune on her fairest side.' 

" Ap?'il 21, 1780. — I DEDICATE to you, my dear Mira, 
this Journal, and I hope it will be some amusement. 
God only knows what is to be my lot ; but I have, as far 
as I can, taken your old advice, and turned affliction's 
better part outward, and am determined to reap as much 
consolation from my prospects as possible ; so that, 
whatever befalls me, I will endeavour to suppose it has its 
benefits, though I cannot immediately see them. 

" April 24. — Took lodgings at a Mr. Vickery's, near 
the Exchange : rather too expensive, but very convenient 
— and here I, on reflection, thought it best to publish, if 
I could do it with advantage, some little piece, before I 
attempted to introduce my principal work. Accordingly, 
I set about a poem, which I called ' The Hero, an Epis- 
tle to Prince William Henry.' " 



"THE HERO; AN EPISTLE." ^^ 

[I must here interrupt the Journal for a moment, to 
explain. The " principal work " alluded to in the above 
entry was a prose treatise, entitled, " A Plan for the 
Examination of our Moral and Religious Opinions,^^ 
of which the first rough draft alone has been preserved ; 
and to which, in one of his rhymed epistles to Mira, 
composed in this same April, 1780, my father thus 
alludes : — 

" Of substance I 've thought, and the varied disputes 
On the nature of man and the notions of brutes ; 
Of systems confuted, and systems explained, 
Of science disputed, and tenets maintained .... 
These, and such speculations on these kind of things. 
Have robbed my poor Muse of her plume and her wings ; 
Consumed the phlogiston you used to admire. 
The spirit extracted, extinguished the fire ; 
Let out all the ether, so pure and refined. 
And left but a mere caput mortuum behind." 

With respect to the " Epistle to Prince William Hen- 
ry " — now King William TV., — I need only remind the 
reader that his Royal Highness had recently been serv- 
ing with honor under Admiral Rodney, and was about 
to return to sea. The Poet, after many cautions against 
the flattery of courtiers, &:.c. &.c., thus concluded his 
Epistle. I copy from his note-book : — 

" Who thus aspiring sings ? wouldest thou explore ; 
A Bard replies, who ne'er assumed before, — 
One taught in hard affliction's school to bear 
Life's ills, where every lesson costs a tear. 
Who sees from thence, the proper point of view. 
What the wise heed not, and the weak pursue. 
* * * * * 

" And now farewell, the drooping Muse exclaims. 
She lothly leaves thee to the shock of war, 



56 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

And, fondly dwelling on her princely tar, 

Wishes the noblest good her Harry's share, 

Without her misery and without her care. 

For, ah ! unknown to thee, a rueful train, 

Her hapless children sigh, and sigh in vain; 

A numerous band, denied the boon to die, 

Half-starved, half-fed by fits of charity. 

Unknown to thee ! and yet, perhaps, thy ear 

Has chanced each sad, amusing tale to hear, 

How some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease ; * 

How some, fike Savage, sickened by degrees ; 

How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed 

The proud, big tear on song-extorted bread ; 

Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose 

Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse.t 

" One of this train — and of these wretches one — 
Slave to the Muses, and to Misery son — 
Now prays the Father of all Fates to shed. 
On Henry, laurels ; on his poet, bread ! 

" Unhappy art ! decreed thine owner's curse ; 
Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse ; 
Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex. 
And every friend, and every brother vex ! 

Each fond companion ! No, I thank my God ! 

There rests my torment — there is hung the rod. 

* Eustace Budgell drowned himself in the Thames in 1736 : the 
miseries of Otway and Savage are familiar to every reader. 

t Goldsmith, on his return to England, was so poor that it was 
with difficulty he was enabled to reach the metropolis with a few 
halfpence only in his pocket. He was an entire stranger, and 
without any recommendation. He offered himself to several apoth- 
ecaries, in the character of a journeyman, but had the mortification 
to find every application without success. At length he Was 
admitted into the house of a chemist. This example was often in 
my father's thoughts. 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." ^J 

To friend, to fame, to family unknown, 

Sour disappointments frown on me alone. 

AVho hates my song, and damns the poor design, 

Shall wound no peace — shall grieve no heart but mine ! 

" Pardon, sweet Prince ! the thoughts that will intrude, 
For want is absent, and dejection rude. 
Methinks I hear, amid the ahouts of Fame, 
Each jolly victor hail my Henry's name ; 
And, Heaven forbid that, in that jovial day. 
One British bard should grieve when all are gay. 
No ! let him find his country his redress, 
And bid adieu to every fond distress; 
Or, touched too near, from joyful scenes retire. 
Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire ! " 

We now return to my father's Journal.] 

" April 25. — Reading the ' Daily Advertiser ' of the 
22d, I found the following : — ' Wanted an amanuensis, 
of grammatical education, and endued with a genius ca- 
pable of making improvements in the writings of a 
gentleman not well versed in the English language.' 
Now, Vanity having no doubt of my capacity, I sent im- 
mediately the following note to a Mrs. Brooke, Coventry- 
street, Haymarket, the person at whose house I was to 
enquire : — * A person, having the advantage of a gram- 
matical education, and who supposes himself endowed 
with a genius capable of making emendations to the 
writings of any gentleman not perfectly acquainted with 
the English language, would be very happy to act as an 
amanuensis, where the confinement was not too rigid, 
&LC.' An answer was returned verbally, by a porter, 
that the person should call in a day or two. 

" April 27, ^- Called on Mrs. Brooke, from whose 
husband or servant in the shop, I had the intelligence 



58 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

that the gentleman was provided — twelve long miles 
walked away, loss of time, and a little disappointment, 
thought I : — now for my philosophy. Perhaps, then, I 
reflected, the ' gentleman ' might not have so very much 
of that character as I at first supposed : he might be a 
sharper, and would not, or an author himself, and conse- 
quently could not, pay me. He might have employed 
me seven hours in a day over law or politics, and treated 
me at night with a Welsh rabbit and porter ! — It 's all 
well ; I can at present buy porter myself, and am my 
own amanuensis. 

" N. B. Sent my poem to Dodsley, and required him 
to return it to-morrow if not approved, otherwise its au- 
thor would call upon him. 

^^ April 28. — Judging it best to have two strings to 
the bow, and fearing Mr. Dodsley's will snap, I have 
finished another little work, from that awkward-titled 
piece, ' The Foes of Mankind ; ' have run it on to 
three hundred and fifty lines, and given it "a still more 
odd name, ' An Epistle from the Devil.' To-morrow I 
hope to transcribe it fair, and send it by Monday. 

" Mr. Dodsley's reply just received. ' Mr. Dodsley 
presents his compliments to the gentleman who favored 
him with the enclosed poem, which he has returned, as 
he apprehends the sale of it would probably not enable 
him to give any consideration. He does not mean by 
this to insinuate a want of merit in the poem, but rather 
a want of attention in the public' 

" Once more, my Mira, I '11 try, and write to Mr. 
Becket : if he fails me ! — I know not how I shall ever 
get sufficient time to go through my principal design ; 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." 59 

but I 've promised to keep up my spirits, and I will. 
God help me ! 

" April 28. — I thank Heaven my spirits are not at 
all affected by Dodsley's refusal. I have not been able 
to get the poem ready for Mr. Becket to-da , but will 
take some pains with it. 

" I find myself under the disagreeable necessity of 
vending, or pawning, some of my more useless articles ; 
accordingly have put into a paper such as cost about two 
or three guineas, and, being silver, have not greatly less- 
ened in their value. The conscientious pawnbroker 
allowed me — ' he thought he might ' — half a guinea 
for them. I took it very readily, being determined to 
call for them very soon, and then, if I afterwards wanted, 
carry them to some less voracious animal of the kind. 

^' 3Iai/ 1. — Still in suspense; but still resigned. I 
think of sending Mr. Becket two or three little pieces, 
large enough for an eighteen-penny pamphlet : but, not- 
withstanding this, to set about the book I chiefly depend 
upon. My good broker's money reduced to five shillings 
and sixpence, and no immediate prospect of more. I have 
only to keep up my spirits as well as I can, and depend 
upon the protection of Providence, which has hitherto 
helped me in worse situations. 

" Let me hope the last day of this month may be a 
more smiling ono than the first. God only knows, and 
to Him I readily, and not unresignediy, leave it. 

" 3Ia7/ S. — Mr. Becket has just had my copy. I 
have made about four hundred and fifty lines, and enti- 
tled them * Poetical Epistles, with a Preface by the 



60 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

learned Martinus Scriblerus.' I do not say it is chance 
whether they take or not ; it is as God pleases, whatever 
wits may say to the contrary. 

" I this day met an old friend ; poor Morley ! — not 
very clean ; ill, heavy, and dejected. The poor fellow 
has had Fortune's smiles and her frowns, and alas, for 
him ! her smiles came first. May I hope a happy prog- 
nostic from this ? No, I do not, cannot, will not depend 
upon Fortune. 

** N. B. The purse a little recruited, by twenty-five 
shillings received for books. Now then, when the spirits 
are tolerable, we '11 pursue our Work, and make hay 
while the sun shines, for it 's plaguy apt to be clouded. 

" 3Ia7/ 6. — Having nearly finished my plan for one 
volume, I hope by next week to complete it, and then 
try my fortune in earnest. Mr. Becket, not yet called 
upon, has had a pretty long time to deliberate upon my 
' Epistles.' If they will do, I shall continue them ; Lon- 
don affording ample matter for the smiles as well as 
frowns of satire. 

" Should I have time after my principal business is 
completed, I don't know whether I shall not write a 
Novel ; those things used to sell, and perhaps will now 
— but of this hereafter. My spirits are marvellously 
good, considering I 'm in the middle of the great city, 
and a stranger, too, without money, — but sometimes we 
have unaccountable fears, and at other times unaccounta- 
ble courage. 

" Mai/ 10. — Mr. Becket says just what Mr. Dodsley 
wrote, 't was a very pretty thing, ' but. Sir, these little 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." Ql 

pieces the town do not regard : it has merit, — perhaps 
some other may.' — It will be offered to no other, Sir ! — 
' Well, Sir, I am obliged to you, but,' &c. — and so 
these little affairs have their end. And are you not dis- 
heartened 1 My dearest Mira, not I ! The wanting a 
letter from you to-day, and the knowing myself to be 
possessed but of sixpence-farthing in the world, are much 
more consequential things. 

'* I have got pretty forward in my book, and shall soon 
know its fate ; if bad, these things will the better prepare 
me for it ; if good, the contrasted fortune will be the 
more agreeable. We are helped, I 'm persuaded, with 
spirits in our necessities. I did not nor could, conceive 
that, with a very uncertain prospect before me, a very 
bleak one behind, and a veri/ poor one around me, I 
should be so happy a fellow : I don't think there 's a 
man in London worth but fourpence-halfpenny — for I 've 
this moment sent seven farthings for a pint of porter — 
who is so resigned to his poverty. Hope, Vanity, and 
the Muse, will certainly contribute something towards a 
light heart ,' but Love and the god of Love only can 
throw a beam of gladness on a heavy one. 

" I am now debating whether an Ode or a Song 
should have the next place in the collection ; which 
being a matter of so great consequence, we '11 bid our 
Mira good night. 

" May 12. — Perhaps it is the most difficult thing in 
the world to tell how far a man's vanity will run away 
with his passions. I shall therefore not judge, at least 
not determine, how far my poetical talents may or may 
not merit applause. For the first time in my life that I 
6 



62 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

recollect, I have written three or four stanzas that so 
far touched me in the reading them, as to take off the 
consideration that they were things of my own fancy* 
Now, if I ever do succeed, I will take particular notice 
if this passage is remarked ; if not, I shall conclude 't was 
mere self-love, — but if so, 't was the strangest, and at 
the same time, strongest disguise she ever put on. 

" You shall rarely find the same humor hold two days. 
I' m dull and heavy, nor can go on with my work. The 
head and heart are like children, who, being praised for 
their good behaviour, will overact themselves ; and so is 
the case with me. Oh ! Sally, how I want you ! 

May 26. — O ! my dear Mira, how you distress me : 
you enquire into my affairs, and love not to be denied, — 
yet you must. To what purpose should I tell you the 
particulars of my gloomy situation ; that I have parted 
with my money, sold my wardrobe, pawned my watch, 
am in debt to my landlord, and finally, at some loss how 
to eat a week longer ? Yet you say, tell me all. Ah, 
my dear Sally, do not desire it ; you must not yet be told 
these things. Appearance is what distresses me : I must 
have dress, and therefore am horribly fearful I shall 
accompany Fashion with fasting — but a fortnight more 
will tell me of a certainty. 

^^ May 18. — A day of bustle — twenty shillings to 
pay a tailor, when the stock amounted to thirteen and 
three-pence. Well, — there were instruments to part 
with, that fetched no loss than eight shillings more ; but 
twenty-one shillings and three-pence would yet be so 
poor a superfluity, that the Muse would never visit till 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." 63 

the purse was recruited ; for, say men what they will, 
she does not love empty pockets nor poor living. Now, 
you must know, my watch was mortgaged for less than 
it ought ; so I redeemed and repledged it, which has 
made me, — the tailor paid and the day's expenses, — at 
this instant worth (let me count my cash) ten shillings — 
a rare case, and most bountiful provision of fortune ! 

" Great God ! I thank thee for these happy spirits : 
seldom they come, but coming, make large amends for 
preceding gloom. 

" I wonder what these people, my Mira, think of me. 
Here 's Vickery, his wife, two maids, and a shop full of 
men : the latter, consequently, neither know nor care 
who I am. A little pretty hawk-eyed girl, I 've a great 
notion, thinks me a fool, for neglecting the devoirs a 
lodger is supposed to pay to an attendant in his house : I 
know but one way to remove the suspicion, and that in 
the end might tend to confirm it. 

" Mrs. Vickery is a clear-sighted woman, who appears 
to me a good wife, mother, and friend. She thinks me 

a soft-tempered gentleman — I 'm a gentleman here 

not quite nice enough. 

" Mr. Vickery is an honest fellow, hasty, and not over 
distinguishing. He looks upon me as a bookish young 
man, and so respects me — for he is bookish himself — 
as one who is not quite settled in the world, nor has 
much knowledge of it ; and as a careless, easy-tempered 
fellow, who never made an observation, nor is ever likely 
to do so. 

" Having thus got my character in the family, my 
employment remains (I suppose) a secret, and I believe 
't is a debate whether I am copying briefs for an attor- 



64 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

ney, or songs for * the lady whose picture was found on 
the pillow t' other day.' 

" N. B. We remove to Bishopsgate Street, in a day or 
two. Not an unlucky circumstance ; as I shall then, 
concealing Vickery's name, let my father know only the 
number of my lodging. 

" May 20. — The cash, by a sad temptation, greatly 
reduced. An unlucky book-stall presented to the eyes 
three volumes of Dryden's works, octavo, five shillings. 
Prudence, however, got the better of the devil, when she 
whispered me to bid three shillings and sixpence : after 
some hesitation, that prevailed with the woman, and I 
carried reluctantly home, I believe, a fair bargain, but a 
very ill-judged one. 

" It 's the vilest thing in the world to have but one 
coat. My only one has happened with a mischance, 
and how to manage it is some difficulty. A confounded 
stove's modish ornament caught its elbow, and rent it 
half away. Pinioned to the side it came home, and I 
ran deploring to my loft. In the dilemma, it occurred 
to me to turn tailor myself; but how to get materials to 
work with puzzled me. At last I went running down in 
a hurry, with three or four sheets of paper in my hand, 
and begged for a needle, &-c. to sew them together. 
This finished my job, and but that it is somewhat thicker, 
the elbow is a good one yet. 

" These are foolish things, Mira, to write or speak, 
and we may laugh at them ; but I '11 be bound to say 
they are much more likely to make a man cry, where 
they happen, — though I was too much of a philosopher 
for that, however not one of those who preferred a ragged 
coat to a whole one. 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." 65 

** On Monday, I hope to finish my book entirely, and 
perhaps send it. God Almighty give it a better fate than 
the trifles tried before ! 

'' Sometimes I think I cannot fail ; and then, knowing 
how often I have thought so of fallible things, I am again 
desponding. Yet, within these three or four days, I 've 
been remarkably high in spirits, and now am so, though 
I 've somewhat exhausted them by writing upwards of 
thirty pages. 

" I am happy in being in the best family you could 
conceive me to have been led to ; — people of real good 
character and good nature ; whose circumstances are 
affluent above their station, and their manners affable 
beyond their circumstances. Had I taken a lodging at 
a different kind of house, I must have been greatly 
distressed ; but now I shall, at all events, not be so be- 
fore 't is determined, one way or other, what I am to 
expect. 

" I keep too little of the journal form here, for I al- 
ways think I am writing to you for the evening's post ; 
and, according to custom then, shall bid my dear Sally 
good night, and ask her prayers. 

" May 21. — I give you, my dear Miss Elmy, a short 
abstract of a Sermon, preached this morning by my 
favorite clergyman, at St. Dunstan's.* There is nothing 
particular in it, but had you heard the good man, reve- 

* The Rev. Thomas Winstanley, of Trinity College, Cambridge, 
A. M., was appointed rector of St. Dnnstan's in the East, in Janu- 
ary, 1771, — succeeding the celebrated Dr. Jortin, author of the 
Life of Erasmus, &c. This eminently respectable clergyman died 
in February, 1789. 

6* 



66 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

rend in appearance, and with a hollow, slow voice, deliver 
it — a man who seems as if already half way to Heaven, 
— you would have joined with me in wondering people 
call it dull and disagreeable to hear such discourses, and 
run from them to societies where Deists foolishly blas- 
pheme, or to pantomimes and farces, where men seek to 
deform the creatures God stamped his own image upon. 
What, I wonder, can Mr. Williams,* as a free-thinker, 
or Mr. Lee Lewis, f as a free-speaker, find so entertain- 
ing to produce, that their congregations so far exceed 
those which grace, and yet disgrace our churches. 



" Text. — ' For many are called, but few chosen.'' 

" Observe, my brethren, that many are called — so many 
that who can say he is not ? Which of you is not called ^ 
Where is the man who neither is, nor will be ? such neither 
is nor will be born. The call is universal ; it is not con- 
fined to this or that sect or country ; to this or that class of 
people : every man shares in this blessed invitation — every 
man is called. Some by outward, some by inward means: 
to some, the happy news is proclaimed, to some it is whis- 
pered. Some have the word preached to their outward 
ears ; some have it suggested, inwardly, in their hearts. 
None are omitted in this universal invitation ; none shall 

* About this time, David Williams, originally a dissenting minis- 
ter in Glamorganshire, published " Lectures on the Universal 
Principles of Religion and Morality," " Apology for professing the 
Religion of Nature," &c., and attempted to establish a congrega- 
tion, on the avowed principles of deism, in Margaret Street, 
Cavendish Square : but this last plan soon failed. He died in 1816. 

t Charles Lee Lewis, the celebrated comedian, was at this time 
amusing the town with an evening entertainment of songs and 
recitations, in the style of Dibdin. 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." qj 

say, ' I came not, for I was not called.' But take notice — 
when you have well considered the universality of the call 
— pondered it, admired, wondered, been lost in contempla- 
tion of the bounty ; take notice how it is abused — ' Few 
are chosen.' Few! but that, you will say, is in comparison, 
not in reality ; — a sad interpretation ! degrading whilst it 
paUiates, still it sounds a lesson to pride ; — still I repeat it, 
' Few are chosen.' How doubly lessening! — many, yea, 
all, are called — are invited, are entreated, are pressed to 
the wedding. Many, yea, all — but a little remnant, — 
heed not, love not, obey not the invitation. Many are call- 
ed to the choice of eternal happiness, and yet few will make 
eternal happiness their choice. 

" Brethren, what reasons may be assigned for these 
things ? For the universality of the call ? For the limita- 
tion of the choice ? The reason why all are called, is this : 
that God is no respecter of persons. Shall any, in the last 
day, proclaim that the Judge of the whole earth did not 
right ? Shall any plead a want of this call, as a reason why 
he came not ? Shall any be eternally miserable, because he 
was refused the means of being happy ? No ; not one. 
All require this mercy ; all have this mercy granted them. 
From the first man to the last, all are sinners ; from the 
first man to the last, all are invited to be clean ; for, as in 
Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive. 

" The reason why many are called, is, because the mercy 
of God is not confined, is unspeakable. The reason why so 
few are chosen, is, because man's depravity is so great, so 
extensive. The call is God's ; the choice is ours ; — that 
we may be happy, is his, of his goodness ; that we will not, 
is our own folly : He wills not that a sinner should die in 
his sins, but, sinners as we are, we had rather die than part 
with them. The reason why few are chosen doth not de- 
pend upon him who calls, but upon those who are called. 
Complain not that you want an invitation to heaven, but 



68 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

complain that you want the inclination to obey it. Say not 
that you cannot go, but that you will not part with the ob- 
jects which prevent your going. 

"Again: — To what are we called? and who are those 
who obey the call ? The last question is to us the most 
important. Those who obey the call are such as pay re- 
spect to it. Those who accept the invitation are such as go 
like guests. Those who think themselves honored in the 
summons will have on their wedding garment ; they will 
put off the filthy robes of their own righteousness, and 
much more will they put aside the garments spotted with 
iniquity. They consider themselves as called to faith, to 
thanksgiving, to justification, to sanctification, and they 
will, therefore, go in the disposition and temper of men 
desirous of these immortal benefits: they know that he who 
had them not — and who, though but one, typifies all the 
rejected, all the not chosen — they know he was bound 
hand and foot, and thrust out for that reason : yet, mark 
you, my fellow sinners ! this man went to the wedding, he 
enrolled himself amongst the guests, he was of the profes- 
sion, a nominal Christian. How many are there now who 
are such, deaf to the true end of their calling ! who love 
mercy, but not to use the means of attaining its blessing ; 
who admire the robe of righteousness, but would wear it 
over the polluted weeds of depravity and hardness of 
heart. 

" But to what are we called? To everlasting happiness! 
Consider, I implore you, whether it is worth the trouble of 
looking afler. Do by it as by your worldly bargains, which 
surely do not offer more. Examine the truths it is founded 
upon ; they will bear examination. Try its merits; they 
will stand the trial. You would grieve to see thousands of 
saints in the kingdom of God, and you yourselves shut out : 
and yet, shut out you will be into everlasting darkness, un- 
less you rightly obey the call which you have heard. It is 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." 59 

not enough to be called, for that all are. It is not enough 
to obey the call, for he did so in part who was rejected from 
the wedding ; but to join the practice of religion to the 
profession of it, is truly to accept the invitation, and will, 
through our Lord Jesus Christ, entitle you to the mercy to 
which we are called, even the pleasures which are at the 
right hand of God the Father Almighty, to whom," &c. 



" The foregoing, as near as I remember, was the sub- 
stance of the good Doctor's discourse. I have doubtless 
not done him justice in the expressions ; those it was 
impossible for me to retain ; but I have preserved, in a 
great measure, the manner, pathos, and argument. Nor 
was the sermon much longer, though it took a long time 
to preach, for here we do not find a discourse run off as 
if they were the best teachers who say most upon a 
subject ; here they dwell upon a sentence, and often re- 
peat it, till it shall hardly fail of making an impres- 
sion. 

" I have this night been drawing out my letter to Lord 
North. I have diligently read it over, and believe it far 
the most consequential piece I ever executed, whether 
in prose or poetry. Its success will soon prove whether 
it is in the power of my talents to obtain me favor. 

" To-morrow, my beloved Sally, I shall transcribe it 
for you and his Lordship ; and if I could suppose you 
both had the same opinion of its writer, my business 
were done. You will perceive there is art in it, though 
art quite consistent with truth — for such is actually the 
case with me. My last shilling became eight-pence yes- 
terday. The simplicity of the style is, I hope, not lost 
in endeavouring at the pathetic ; and if his Lordship is 



70 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

indeed a literary man, I am not without hope, that it 
may be a means of obtaining for me a better fortune 
than hitherto has befallen us. 

" May 22. — I have just now finished my book, and, 
if I may so say, consecrated it, by begging of Him, who 
alone can direct all things, to give me success in it, or 
patience under any disappointment I may meet with 
from its wanting that. I have good hope from my letter, 
which I shall probably copy for you to-morrow, for I find 
I can't to-day. This afternoon I propose to set out for 
Westminster, and I hope shall not meet with much diffi- 
culty in getting the book delivered to his Lordship. — 

'' — I am now returned from Downing Street, Lord 
North's place of residence. Every thing at this time 
becomes consequential. I plagued myself lest I should 
err in little things — often the causes of a person's doing 
wrong. The direction of the letter, and the place to call 
at, puzzled me ; I forgot his Lordship's name, and had 
no Court Calendar. See how trifles perplex us ! How- 
ever, my book is safely delivered, and I shall call again 
on Wednesday, when I hope to be told something. 

" I know not how totally to banish hope, and yet can't 
encourage it. What a day will to-morrow be to me ! a 
day of dread and expectation. Ah, dear Mira, my hopes 
are flying ; I see now my attempt in its darkest side — 
twice, nay, three times unsuccessful in a month I have 
been here — once in my application to the person adver- 
tising, and twice in the refusal of booksellers. God 
help me, my Sally, I have but a cowardly heart, yet I 
bear up as well as I can ; and if I had another shilling 
would get something to-night to keep these gloomy 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." Jl 

thoughts at bay, but I must save what I have, in hopes 
of having a letter to pay for to-morrow. How, let me 
suppose, shall I be received ? The very worst I can 
possibly guess will be to have my book returned by the 
servant, and no message ; next to this a civil refusal. 
More than these I dare not dwell upon ; and yet these 
alone are uncomfortable things. 

" O ! what pains do we take, what anxiety do we feel, 
in our pursuit of worldly good — how reproachful a com- 
parison does it make to our more important business ! 
"When was I thus solicitous for the truly valuable riches ? 

my God ! forgive a creature who is frailty itself — who 
is lost in his own vileness and littleness : who would be 
happy, and knows not the means. My God, direct me ! 

" 3Iay 23. — Here follows, my dearest Sally, a copy 
of my letter. I am in tolerable spirits this morning, but 
my whole night has been spent in waking and sleeping 
visions, in ideas of the coming good or evil ; names, by 
the way, we learn early to misplace. Sometimes I have 
dwelt upon all my old views and romantic expectations ; 
have run from disappointment to disappointment ; and 
such as the past has been, so, said I, shall be the future. 
Then my vanity has told fairer things, and magnified my 
little talents, till I supposed they must be thought worthy 
of notice. So that from fear to flattery, and from hope 
to anxiety, I passed a varied and unquiet night. To-day 

1 am at least more composed, and will give you the let- 
ter promised." 

* # * * 

[Some leaves are here torn out.] 



72 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

" Like some poor bark on the rough ocean tost, 
My rudder broken, and my compass lost, 
My sails the coarsest, and too thin to last. 
Pelted by rains, and bare to many a blast. 
My anchor, Hope, scarce fixed enough to stay 
Where the strong current Grief sweeps all away, 
I sail along, unknowing how to steer. 
Where quicksands he and frowning rocks appear. 
Life's ocean teems with foes to my frail bark. 
The rapid sword-fish, and the ravening shark. 
Where torpid things crawl forth in splendid shell. 
And knaves and fools and sycophants live well. 
What have I left in such tempestuous sea ? 
No Tritons shield, no Naiads shelter me ! 
A gloomy Muse, in Mira's absence, hears 
My plaintive prayer, and sheds consoling tears — 
Some fairer prospect, though at distance, brings. 
Soothes me with song, and flatters as she sings." 



" June 5. — Heaven and its Host witness to me that my 
soul is conscious of its own demerit. I deserve nothing. 
I do nothing but what is worthy reproof. I expect 
nothing from what is nearest in my thoughts or actions 
to virtue. All fall short of it ; much, very much, flies 
from it. 

" I make no comparison with the children of men. 
It matters not to me who is vile or who is virtuous. 
What I am is all to me ; and I am nothing but in my 
dependence. 

*' O ! Thou, who searchest all hearts, who givest, and 
who hast given, more than I deserve, or can deserve — 
who withholdest punishment, and proclaimest pardon — 
form my desires, that Thou mayest approve them, and 
approving gratify. My present, O ! forgive and pity, and 
as it seemeth good to Thee, so be it done unto me. 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." 73 

" June 6. — I will now, my dearest Mir a, give you 
my letter to Lord Shelburne, but cannot recollect an 
exact copy, as I altered much of it, and I believe, in 
point of expression, for the better. I want not, I know, 
your best wishes ; those and her prayers my Mira gives 
me. God will give us peace, my love, in his time : pray 
chiefly that we may acquiesce in his righteous determi- 
nations. 

" To the Right Honorable the Earl of Shelburne. 
" Ah ! Shelburne, blest with all that 's good or great 
To adorn a rich, or save a sinking state. 
If public Ills engross not all thy care, 
Let private Woe assail a patriot's ear. 
Pity confined, but not less warm, impart. 
And unresisted win thy noble heart : 
Nor deem I rob thy soul of Britain's share. 
Because I hope to have some interest there ; 
Still wilt thou shine on all a fostering sun, 
Though with more favoring beams enlightening one, — 
As Heaven will oft make some more amply blest, 
Yet still in general bounty feeds the rest. 
Oh hear the Virtue thou reverest plead ; 
She '11 swell thy breast, and there applaud the deed. 
She bids thy thoughts one hour from greatness stray, 
And leads thee on to fame a shorter way ; 
Where, if no withering laurel 's thy reward. 
There 's shouting Conscience, and a grateful Bard ; 
A bard untrained in all but misery's school, 
Who never bribed a knave or praised a fool ; — 
'T is Glory prompts, and as thou read'st attend, 
She dictates pity, and becomes my friend ; 
She bids each cold and dull reflection flee, 
And yields her Shelburne to distress and me ! — 

" Forgive, my Lord, a free, and perhaps, unusual address ; 
misfortune has in it, I hope, some excuse for presumption. 
7 



74 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Your Lordship will not, cannot, be greatly displeased with 
an unfortunate man, whose wants are the most urgent ; 
who wants a friend to assist him, and bread, 

" I will not tire your Lordship with a recital of the vari- 
ous circumstances which have led to this situation. It 
would be too long a tale ; though there are parts in it which, 
I will venture to assure your Lordship, would not only 
affect your compassion, but, I hope, engage your approba- 
tion. It is too dull a view of the progression from pleasing, 
though moderate expectation, to unavoidable penury. 

" Your Lordship will pardon me the relation of a late and 
unsuccessful attempt to become useful to myself and the 
community I live in. Starving as an apothecary, in a httle 
venal borough in Suffolk, it was there suggested to me that 
Lord North, the present minister, was a man of that liberal 
disposition, that I might hope success from a representation 
of my particular circumstances to him. This I have done, 
and laid before his Lordship, I confess a dull, but a faithful 
account of my misfortunes. My request had bounds the 
most moderate. I asked not to feed upon the spoils of my 
country, but by an honest diligence and industry to earn 
the bread I needed. The most pressing part of my prayer 
entreated of his Lordship his speedy determination, as my 
little stock of money was exhausted, and I was reduced to 
live in misery and on credit. 

" Why I complain of his Lordship is not that he denied 
this, though an humble and moderate petition, but for his 
cruel and unkind delay. My Lord, you will pardon me a 
resentment expressed in one of the little pieces I have taken 
the liberty of enclosing, when your Lordship considers the 
inhumanity I was treated with : my repeated prayers for my 
sentence were put off by a delay; and at length a lingering 
refusal, brought me by an insolent domestic, determined my 
suit, and my opinion of his Lordship's private virtues. 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." 75 

" My Lord, I now turn to your Lordship, and entreat to 
be heard. I am ig^norant what to ask, but feel forcibly my 
wants — Patronage and Bread. I have no other claim on 
your Lordship than my necessities, but they are great, un- 
less my Muse, and she has, I am afraid, as few charms ; nor 
is it a time for such to flourish : in serener days, my Lord, I 
have produced some poetical compositions the public might 
approve, and your Lordship not disdain to patronise. I 
would not, my Lord, be vain farther than necessity war- 
rants, and I pray your Lordship to pardon me this. May I 
not hope it will occur to you how I may be useful ? My 
heart is humbled to all but villainy, and would live, if hon- 
estly, in any situation. Your Lordship has my fortune in 
your power, and I will, with respect and submission, await 
your determination. I am, my Lord, &c. &c." 

'' — You see, my dear Mira, to what our situation 
here may reduce us. Yet am I not conscious of losing 
the dignity becoming a man : some respect is due to the 
superiority of station ; and that I will always pay, but I 
cannot flatter or fawn, nor shall my humblest request be 
so presented. If respect will not do, adulation shall not ; 
but I hope it will ; as I 'm sure he must have a poor 
idea of greatness, who delights in a supple knee bending 
to him, or a tongue voluble in paltry praise, which con- 
science says is totally undeserved. One of the poetical 
pieces I sent to Lord Shelburne you have no copy of, 
and I will therefore give it you here. 

" An Epistle to a Friend. 

" Why, true, thou sayest the fools at Court denied, 
Growl vengeance, — and then take the other side : 
The unfed flatterer borrows satire's power, 
As sweets unsheltered run to vapid sour. 



76 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

But thou, the counsel to my closest thought, 
Beheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stanzas wrought. 
The Muse I court ne'er fawned on venal souls, 
Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise controls ; 
She, yet unskilled in all but fancy's dream, 
Sang to the woods, and Mira was her theme. 
But when she sees a titled nothing stand 
The ready cipher of a trembling land, — 
Not of that simple kind that placed alone 
Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none, — 
But those which, joined to figures, well express 
A strengthened tribe that amplify distress. 
Grow in proportion to their number great. 
And help each other in the ranks of state ; — 
When this and more the pensive Muses see. 
They leave the vales and willing nymphs to thee ; 
To Court on wings of agile anger speed. 
And paint to freedom's sons each guileful deed. 
Hence rascals teach the virtues they detest. 
And fright base action from sin's wavering breast ; 
For though the knave may scorn the Muse's arts. 
Her sting may haply pierce more timid hearts. 
Some, though they wish it, are not steeled enough, 
Nor is each would-be villain conscience-proof. 

" And what, my friend, is left my song besides ? 
No school-day wealth that rolled in silver tides, 
No dreams of hope that won my early will, 
Nor love, that pained in temporary thrill ; 
No gold to deck my pleasure-scorned abode, 
No friend to whisper peace, — -to give me food ; — 
Poor to the World I 'd yet not live in vain. 
But show its lords their hearts, and my disdain. 

" Yet shall not Satire all my song engage 
In indiscriminate and idle rage ; 

True praise, where Virtue prompts, shall gild each line, 
And long — if vanity deceives not — shine. 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." 77 

For though in harsher strains, the strains of woe, 

And unadorned, my heart-felt murmurs flow, 

Yet time shall be when this thine humble friend 

Shall to more lofty heights his notes extend. 

A man — for other title were too poor — 

Such as 't were almost virtue to adore, 

He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale. 

As the sun vapors from the dew-pressed vale ; 

Himself uninjuring shall new vv^armth infuse. 

And call to blossom every want-nipped Muse. 

Then shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice. 

His name harmonious thrilled on Mira's voice ; 

Round the reviving bays new sweets shall spring, 

And Shelburive's fame through laughing valleys ring." 

" Pay me, dear, for this long morning's work, with 
your patience, and, if you can, your approbation. I sup- 
pose we shall have nothing more of this riot in the city, 
and I hope now to entertain you with better things. 
God knows, and we will be happy that it is not the work 
of accident. Something will happen, and perhaps now. 
Angels guide and bless you ! 

*' June 8. — Yesterday, my own business being de- 
cided, I was at Westminster at about three o'clock in the 
afternoon, and saw the members go to the House. The 
mob stopped many persons, but let all whom I saw pass, 
excepting Lord Sandwich, whom they treated roughly, 
broke his coach windows, cut his face, and turned him 
back. A guard of horse and foot were immediately sent 
for, who did no particular service, the mob increasing 
and defeating them. 

*' I left Westminster when all the members, that were 
permitted, had entered the House, and came home. In 
my way I met a resolute band of vile-looking fellows, 
7* 



78 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

ragged, dirty, and insolent, armed with clubs, going to 
join their companions. I since learned that there were 
eight or ten of these bodies in different parts of the 
city. 

'' About seven o'clock in the evening I went out 
again. At Westminster the mob were few, and those 
quiet, and decent in appearance. I crossed St. George's 
Fields, which were empty, and came home again by 
Blackfriars' Bridge ; and in going from thence to the Ex- 
change, you pass the Old Bailey ; and here it was that I 
saw the first scene of terror and riot ever presented to 
me. The new prison was a very large, strong, and 
beautiful building, having two wings, of which you can 
suppose the extent, when you consider their use ; besides 
these, were the keeper's (Mr. Akerman's) house, a strong 
intermediate work, and likewise other parts, of which I 
can give you no description. Akerman had in his cus- 
tody four prisoners, taken in the riot ; these the mob 
went to his house and demanded. He begged he might 
send to the sheriff, but this was not permitted. How he 
escaped, or where he is gone, I know not ; but just at 
the time I speak of they set fire to his house, broke in, 
and threw every piece of furniture they could find into 
the street, firing them also in an instant. The engines 
came, but were only suffered to preserve the private 
houses near the prison. 

** As I was standing near the spot, there approached 
another body of men, I suppose 500, and Lord George 
Gordon in a coach, drawn by the mob towards Alder- 
man Bull's, bowing as he passed along. He is a lively- 
looking young man in appearance, and nothing more, 
though just now the reigning hero. 



"THE POET'S JOURNAL." 79 

" By eight o'clock, Akerman's house was in flames. 
I went close to it, and never saw any thing so dreadful. 
The prison was, as I said, a remarkably strong building ; 
but, determined to force it, they broke the gates with 
crows and other instruments, and climbed up the outside 
of the cell part, which joins the two great wings of the 
building, where the felons were confined ; and I stood 
where I plainly saw their operations. They broke the 
roof, tore away the rafters, and having got ladders they 
descended. Not Orpheus himself had more courage or 
better luck ; flames all around them, and a body of sol- 
diers expected, they defied and laughed at all opposition. 

" The prisoners escaped. I stood and saw about 
twelve women and eight men ascend from their confine- 
ment to the open air, and they were conducted through 
the street in their chains. Three of these were to be 
hanged on Friday. You have no conception of the 
phrensy of the multitude. This being done, and Aker- 
man's house now a mere shell of brickwork, they kept a 
store of flame there for other purposes. It became red- 
hot, and the doors and windows appeared like the en- 
trance to so many volcanoes. With some difficulty they 
then fired the debtor's prison — broke the doors — and 
they too, all made their escape. 

" Tired of the scene, I went home, and returned again 
at eleven o'clock at night. I met large bodies of horse 
and foot soldiers coming to guard the Bank, and some 
houses of Roman Catholics near it. Newgate was at 
this time open to all ; any one might get in, and, what 
was never the case before, any one might get out. I did 
both ; for the people were now chiefly lookers on. The 
mischief was done, and the doers of it gone to another 
part of the town. 



80 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

" But I must not omit what struck me most. About 
ten or twelve of the mob getting to the top of the debt- 
ors' prison, whilst it was burning, to halloo, they appeared 
rolled in black smoke mixed with sudden bursts of fire 
— like Milton's infernals, who were as familiar with 
flame as with each other. On comparing notes with my 
neighbours, I find I saw but a small part of the mischief. 
They say Lord Mansfield's house is now in flames." .... 
* * * * 

[Some leaves are here torn out.] 



* # 



" June 11. — Sunday. — As I 'm afraid my ever dear- 
est friend, my Mira, has not a preacher so affecting as 
my worthy rector, I shall not scruple to give his morning 
discourse in the way I have abstracted those before ; and 
I know my dear Sally will pardon, will be pleased with, 
the trouble I give her." * * * 



With a short abstract of a sermon on the text " Awake 
thou that sleepest," which I do not think it necessary to 
transcribe, the " Poet's Journal," as I have it, abruptly 
concludes. But my father kept, while resident in the 
city, another note-book, solely for himself, from which I 
consider it due to his memory — in order to complete 
the reader's impression of his character and conduct at 
this, the most melancholy period of his life — to make a 
very few extracts. 

I. 

" O gracious Redeemer ! fill me, I beseech thee, with 
Divine love ; let me, O my Saviour ! set my affections on 
thee and things above ; take from me this over-carefulness 



PRAYERS AND M ED I TAT ION S. — 1780. gl 

and anxiety after the affairs of this mortal body, and deeply 
impress on my thoughts the care of my immortal soul. Let 
me love thee, blessed Lord ! desire thee, and embrace thy 
cross when it is offered me. Set before me the value of 
eternal happiness, and the true worth of human expecta- 
tions. 

" O ! detach my heart from self-pleasing, from vanity, and 
all the busy passions that draw me from thee. Fix it on 
thy love ; let it be my joy to contemplate thy condescension 
and thy kindness to man ; may gratitude to my Redeemer 
wean me from inclination for his foes ; may it draw me from 
the objects of the world, the dreams of the senses, and all 
the power and temptation of the devil and his angels. 

" Remember me. Lord, at thy table ; behold I desire to 
be with thee ; O be thou with me ! If thou art absent, I 
cannot receive comfort even there ; if thou art with me, 
I cannot miss it. The treasures of eternal Ufe are thine ; 
O Lord, give me of those treasures ; give me a foretaste of 
thy pleasures, that I may look more indifferently upon the 
earth and its enjoyments. Lord ! where are thy old loving- 
kindnesses ? Forgive me, most gracious Saviour ; and restore 
me to thy favor. O give me the hght of thy countenance, 
and I shall be whole. Amen ! " 

II. 

" O, my Lord God, I will plead my cause before thee, let 
me not be condemned; behold, I desire to be thine. O, 
cast me not away from thee. My sins are great, and often 
repeated. They are a burthen to me, I sink under them ; 
Lord, save me, or I perish. Hold out thine hand ; my faith 
trembles 5 Lord, save me ere I sink. 

" I am afflicted in mind, in body, in estate ; Oh ! be thou 
my refuge ! I look unto thee for help, from whence all 
help Cometh ; I cast off" all dependence on the world or mine 
own endeavours : thou art my God, and I willtrust in thee 
alone. 



82 



LIFE OF CRABBE. 



" O Lord Jesus Christ, who didst deliver us from dark- 
ness and the shadow of death, illuminate, enlighten me ; 
comfort me, O Lord, for I go mourning. O be thou with 
me, and I shall live. Behold, I trust in thee, Lord, forsake 
me not. Amen.^' 

IIL 

"I look back on myself, — myself, an ample field of 
speculation for me. I see there the infant, the child, and 
all the rapid progress of human life ; the swifter progress of 
sin and folly, that came with every new day, but did not 
like the day depart to return no more. 

" If I die to-morrow — and it may be my lot — shall I 
not have cause to wish my death had happened at a former 
period ? at a time when I felt strong hope and lively faith ? 
and what inference will the wish lead me to draw, — a wish 
for stronger hope and livelier faith, an ardent prayer and 
due repentance ? If not, my wishes will be my torment. 
Never again to be cheered with the comforts of divine 
grace, how sad ! to be totally forsaken of it, how tremen- 
dous ! 

" But I speak of to-morrow, why may it not be to-day ? 
why not now ? — this instant, I ask my heart the question, 
it may cease to beat. The thunderbolt may be spent on my 
head. The thunderbolt, did I say ? O the importance of a 
worm's destruction ! A little artery may burst ; a small 
vital chord drop its office ; an invisible organ grow dormant 
in the brain, and all is over — all over with the clay, and 
with the immortal all to come. 

" Of the ten thousand vital vessels, the minute, intricate 
network of tender-framed machinery, how long have they 
wrought without destroying the machine ! How many 
parts necessary to being, how long held in motion ! Our 
hours are miracles : shall we say that miracles cease, when, 
by being, we are marvellous ? No, I should not think the 



PRAYERS AND M E D I T ATION S. — 1780. §3 

summons wonderful ; nor partial, for younger have been 
summoned ; nor cruel, for I have abused mercy ; nor tyran- 
nical, for I am a creature, a vessel in the hands of the pot- 
ter : neither am I without conviction that, if it be better for 
me to Uve another day, I shall not die this. 

" But what of awe, of fear, in such a call ? where is he 
who then thinks not — if he has permission to think — sol- 
emnly ? God his Judge, and God his Redeemer ; Terror 
visible, and Mercy slighted, are then to be heard : — the 
moment at hand that brings heaven, or hell ! where is an 
opiate for the soul that wakes then ? 

" O thou blessed Lord, who openedst the gate of life, let 
me live in true faith, in holy hope : and let not my end sur- 
prise me ! Ten thousand thoughts disturb my soul : be, 
thou greatest and fairest among ten thousand, — be thou 
with me, O my Saviour ! Return ! return ! and bring me 
hope ! " 

IV. 

" Amid the errors of the best, how shall my soul find 
safety ? Even by thee, O Lord ! Where is unlettered 
Hope to cast her anchor ? Even in thy blessed Gospel ! 
Serious examination, deep humihty, earnest prayer, will 
obtain certainty. 

*' God is good. Christ is our only Mediator and Advo- 
cate. He suffered for our sins. By his stripes we are 
healed. As in Adam all die, so in Christ all are made alive. 
Whoso believeth shall be saved. But faith without works 
is dead. Yet it is the grace of God that worketh in us. 
Every good and every perfect work cometh from above. 
Man can do nothing of himself j but Christ is all in all; 
and, Whatsoever things ye shall ask in the name of Jesus, 
shall be granted. This is sufficient, this is plain ; I ask no 
philosophic researches, no learned definitions ; I want not 
to dispute, but to be saved. Lord ! save me, or I perish. 



84 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

I only know my own vileness ; I only know thy sufficiency; 
these are enough ; witness Heaven and Earth, my trust is 
in God's mercy, through Jesus Christ, my blessed Redeem- 
er. Amen ! " 



" My God, my God, I put my trust in thee ; my troubles 
increase, my soul is dismayed, I am heavy and in distress ; 
all day long I call upon thee : O be thou my helper in the 
needful time of trouble. 

" Why art thou so far from me, O my Lord ? why hidest 
thou thy face ? I am cast down, I am in poverty and in 
affliction : be thou with me, O my God ; let me not be 
wholly forsaken, O my Redeemer ! 

" Behold, I trust in thee, blessed Lord. Guide me, and 
govern me unto the end. O Lord, my salvation, be thou 
ever with me. Amen." 



LETTER TO BURKE. §5 

CHAPTER IV. 
1781. 

MR. CRABBE'S letter TO BURKE, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 
THE PUBLICATION OF '' THE LIBRARY." HE IS DO- 
MESTICATED AT BEACONSFIELD. TAKES ORDERS. IS 

APPOINTED CURATE AT ALDBOROUGH. 

It is to be regretted that Mr. Crabbe's Journal does 
not extend over more than three months of the miserable 
year that he spent in the city. During the whole of that 
time he experienced nothing but disappointments and 
repulses. His circumstances were now, indeed, fearful- 
ly critical : absolute want stared him in the face : a gaol 
seemed the only immediate refuge for his head ; and the 
best he could hope for was, dismissing all his dreams of 
literary distinction, to find the means of daily bread in 
the capacity of a druggist's assistant. To borrow, with- 
out any prospect of repaying, was what his honesty 
shrunk from ; to beg was misery, and promised, more- 
over, to be fruitless. A spirit less manly and less religious 
must have sunk altogether under such an accumulation 
of sorrows. 

Mr. Crabbe made one effort more. In his " sketch," 
he says : " He did not so far mistake as to believe that 
any name can give lasting reputation to an undeserving 
work ; but he was fully persuaded, that it must be some very 
meritorious and extraordinary performance, such as he 
had not the vanity to suppose himself capable of produc- 
ing, that would become popular, without the introductory 
probat of some well-known and distinguished character. 



86 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Thus thinking, and having now his first serious attempt 
nearly completed, afraid of venturing without a guide, 
doubtful whom to select, knowing many by reputation, 
none personally — he fixed, impelled by some propitious 
influence, in some happy moment, upon Edmund Burke 
— one of the first of Englishmen, and, in the capacity 
and energy of his mind, one of the greatest of human 
beings." 

The letter which the young poet addressed to Burke 
must have been seen by Mr. Prior, when he composed 
his Life of the great statesman ; but that work had been 
published for nine years before any of Mr. Crabbe's 
family were aware that a copy of it had been preserved ; 
nor had they any exact knowledge of the extremity of 
distress which this remarkable letter describes, until 
the hand that penned it was in the grave. It is as fol- 
lows : 

" To Edmund Burke, Esq. 

"Sir, — I am sensible that I need even your talents to 
apologize for the freedom I now take ; but I have a plea 
which, however simply urged, will, with a mind like yours, 
Sir, procure me pardon : I am one of those outcasts on the 
world, who are without a friend, without employment, and 
without bread. 

" Pardon me a short preface. I had a partial father, who 
gave me a better education than his broken fortune would 
have allowed ; and a better than was necessary, as he could 
give me that only. I was designed for the profession of 
physic ; but not having wherewithal to complete the requi- 
site studies, the design but served to convince me of a pa- 
rent's affection, and the error it had occasioned. In April 
last, I came to London, with three pounds, and flattered 



LETTER TO BURKE 



87 



myself this would be sufficient to supply me with the com- 
mon necessaries of life, till my abilities should procure me 
more 3 of these I had the highest opinion, and a poetical 
vanity contributed to my delusion. I knew little of the 
world, and had read books only : I wrote, and fancied per- 
fection in my compositions ; whe:* I wanted bread they 
promised me affluence, and soothed me with dreams of repu- 
tation, whilst my appearance subjected me to contempt. 

" Time, reflection, and want have shown me my mistake, 
I see my trifles in that which I think the true hght ; and, 
whilst I deem them such, have yet the opinion that holds 
them superior to the common run of poetical publications. 
" I had some knowledge of the late Mr. Nassau, the 
brother of Lord Rochford; in consequence of which, I ask- 
ed his Lordship's permission to inscribe my little work to 
him. Knowing it to be free from all pohtical allusions and 
personal abuse, it was no very material point to me to whom 
it was dedicated. His Lordship thought it none to him, 
and obligingly Consented to my request. 

" I was told that a subscription would be the more profit- 
able method for me, and therefore endeavoured to circulate 
copies of the enclosed Proposals. 

"I am afraid. Sir, I disgust you with this very dufl nar- 
ration, but believe me punished in the misery that occasions 
it. You will conclude, that, during this time, I must have 
been at more expense than I could afford ; indeed, the most 
parsimonious could not have avoided it. The printer de- 
ceived me, and my httle business has had every delay. The 
people with whom I live perceive my situation, and find me 
to be indigent and without friends. About ten days since, I 
was compelled to give a note for seven pounds, to avoid an 
arrest for about double that sum which I owe. I wrote to 
every friend I had, but my friends are poor likewise ; the 
time of payment approached, and I ventured to represent 
my case to Lord Rochford. I begged to be credited for this 



88 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

sum till I received it of my subscribers, which I believe will 
be within one month : but to this letter I had no reply, and 
I have probably offended by my importunity. Having used 
every honest means in vain, I yesterday confessed my ina- 
bility, and obtained, with much entreaty, and as the greatest 
favor, a week's forbearance, when I am positively told, that 
I must pay the money, or prepare for a prison. 

" You will guess the purpose of so long an introduction. 
I appeal to you. Sir, as a good, and, let me add, a great 
man. I have no other pretensions to your favor than that 
I am an unhappy one. It is not easy to support the 
thoughts of confinement ; and I am coward enough to dread 
such an end to my suspense. 

"Can you, Sir, in any degree, aid me with propriety ? — 
Will you ask any demonstrations of my veracity ? I have 
imposed upon myself, but I have been guilty of no other 
imposition. Let me, if possible, interest your compassion. 
I know those of rank and fortune are teased with frequent 
petitions, and are compelled to refuse the requests even of 
those whom they know to be in distress ; it is, therefore, 
with a distant hope I ventured to solicit such favor ; but 
you will forgive me. Sir, if you do not think proper to re- 
lieve. It is impossible that sentiments like yours can pro- 
ceed from any but a humane and generous heart. 

" I will call upon you, Sir, to-morrow, and if I have not the 
happiness to obtain credit with you, I must submit to my 
fate. My existence is a pain to myself, and every one near 
and dear to me are distressed in my distresses. My connec- 
tions, once the source of happiness, now embitter the re- 
verse of my fortune, and I have only to hope a speedy end 
to a life so unpromisingly begun : in which (though it 
ought not to be boasted of) I can reap some consolation 
from looking to the end of it. I am, Sir, with the greatest 
respect, your obedient and most humble servant, 

George Crabbe.'* 



LETTER TO BURKE. 89 

" Mr. Burke was, at this period (1781), engaged in the 
hottest turmoils of parliamentary opposition, and his own 
pecuniary circumstances were by no means very affluent : 
yet he gave instant attention to this letter, and the verses 
which it enclosed. He immediately appointed an hour 
for my father to call upon him at his house in London ; 
and the short interview that ensued, entirely, and for 
ever changed the nature of his worldly fortunes. He 
was, in the common phrase, " a made man" from that 
hour. He went into Mr. Burke's room, a poor young 
adventurer, spurned by the opulent and rejected by the 
publishers, his last shilling gone, and all but his last hope 
with it ; he came out virtually secure of almost all the 
good fortune that, by successive steps, afterwards fell to 
his lot — his genius acknowledged by one whose verdict 
could not be questioned — his character and manners 
appreciated and approved by a noble and capacious 
heart, whose benevolence knew no limits but its power — 
that of a giant in intellect, who was, in feeling, an unso- 
phisticated child — a bright example of the close affinity 
between superlative talents, and the warmth of the gene- 
rous affections. Mr. Crabbe had afterwards many other 
friends, kind, liberal, and powerful, who assisted him in 
his professional career ; but it was one hand alone that 
rescued him when he was sinking. In reflecting upon 
the consequences of the letter to Burke — the happiness, 
the exultation, the inestimable benefits that resulted to 
my father, — ascribing, indeed, my own existence to that 
great and good man's condescension and prompt kind- 
ness — I may be pardoned for dwelling upon that inter- 
view with feelings of gratitude which I should but in 
vain endeavour to express. 
8* 



90 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

But sensible as I am of the importance of Mr. Burke's 
interference in my fatlier's behalf, I would not imply that 
there was not ample desert to call it forth. Enlarged as 
was Mr. Burke's benevolence, had not the writings which 
were submitted to his inspection possessed the marks of 
real genius, the applicant would probably have been dis- 
missed with a little pecuniary assistance. I must add 
that, even had his poems been evidently meritorious, it is 
not to be supposed that the author would have at once 
excited the strongest personal interest in such a mind, 
unless he had, during this interview, exhibited the traits 
of a pure and worthy character. Nay, had there appear- 
ed any offensive peculiarities of manner and address — 
either presumption or meanness — though the young poet 
might have received both kindness and patronage, can 
any one dream that Mr. Burke would have at once taken 
up his cause with the zeal of a friend, domesticated him 
under his own roof, and treated him like a son ? In 
mentioning his new yrotege, a few days afterwards, to 
Reynolds, Burke said, "■ He has the mind and feelings of 
a gentleman." Sir Joshua told this, years later, to my 
grateful father himself. The autobiographical sketch 
thus continues the narrative of this providential turn in 
his affairs : — 

" To Mr. Burke, the young man, with timidity, indeed, 
but with the strong and buoyant expectation of inexpe- 
rience, submitted a large quantity of miscellaneous compo- 
sitions, on a variety of subjects, which he was soon taught 
to appreciate at their proper value : yet such was the 
feeling and tenderness of his judge, that in the very act of 
condemnation, something was found for praise. Mr. Crabbe 
had sometimes the satisfaction of hearing, when the verses 



LETTER TO BURKE. 9| 

were bad, that the thoughts deserved better ; and that, if 
he had the common faults of inexperienced writers, he had 
frequently the merit of thinking for himself. Among those 
compositions, were two poems of somewhat a superior kind, 
— ' The Library ' and ' The Village : ' these were selected 
by Mr. Burke ; and with the benefit of his judgment, and 
the comfort of his encouraging and exhilarating predictions, 
Mr. Crabbe was desired to learn the duty of sitting in judg- 
ment upon his best efforts, and without mercy rejecting the 
rest. When all was done that his abilities permitted, and 
when Mr. Burke had patiently waited the progress of im- 
provement in the man whom he conceived to be capable of 
it, he himself took ' The Library ' to Mr. Dodsley, then of 
Pall Mall, and gave many lines the advantage of his own 
reading and comments. Mr. Dodsley listened with all the 
respect due to the reader of the verses, and all the apparent 
desire to be pleased that could be wished by the writer ; 
and he was as obliging in his reply as, in the very nature of 
things, a bookseller can be supposed to be towards a young 
candidate for poetical reputation : — ' He had declined the 
venturing upon any thing himself: there was no judging of 
the probability of success. The taste of the town was ex- 
ceedingly capricious and uncertain. He paid the greatest 
respect to Mr. Burke's opinion that the verses were good, 
and he did in part think so himself : but he declined the haz- 
ard of publication ; yet would do all he could for Mr. Crabbe, 
and take care that his poem should have all the benefit he 
could give it.' - 

" The worthy man was mindful of his engagement : he 
became even solicitous for the success of the work ; and no 
doubt its speedy circulation was in some degree caused by 
his exertions. This he did ; and he did more ; — though by 
no means insensible of the value of money, he gave to the 
author his profits as a publisher and vender of the pam- 
phlet ; and Mr. Crabbe has seized every occasion which has 



92 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

offered to make acknowledgment for such disinterested con- 
duct, at a period when it was more particularly acceptable 
and beneficial. The success of ' The Library ' gave some 
reputation to the author, and was the occasion of his second 
poem, ' The Village,' which was corrected, and a considera- 
ble portion of it written, in the house of his excellent 
friend, whose own activity and energy of mind would not 
permit a young man under his protection to cease from 
labor, and whose judgment directed that labor to its most 
useful attainments. 

" The exertions of this excellent friend in favor of a 
young writer were not confined to one mode of affording 
assistance. Mr. Crabbe was encouraged to lay open his 
views, past and present ; to display whatever reading and 
acquirements he possessed ; to explain the causes of his 
disappointments, and the cloudiness of his prospects ; in 
short, he concealed nothing from a friend so able to guide 
inexperience, and so willing to pardon inadvertency. He 
was invited to Beaconsfield, the seat of his protector, and 
was there placed in a convenient apartment, supplied with 
books for his information and amusement, and made a mem- 
ber of a family whom it was honor as well as pleasure to 
become in any degree associated with. If Mr. Crabbe, no- 
ticed by such a man, and received into such a family, should 
have given way to some emotions of vanity, and supposed 
there must have been merit on one part, as well as benevo- 
lence on the other, he has no slight plea to offer for his 
frailty, — especially as we conceive it may be added, that 
his vanity never at any time extinguished any portion of 
his gratitude ; and that it has ever been his delight to think, 
as well as his pride to speak, of Mr. Burke as his father, 
guide, and friend ; nor did that gentleman ever disallow 
the name to which his conduct gave sanction and pro- 
priety." 



BEACONSFIELD. 93 

It was in the course of one of their walks amidst the 
classical shades of Beaconsfield, that Burke, after some 
conversation on general literature, suggested by a pas- 
sage of the Georgics, which he had happened to quote 
on observing something that was going on in his favorite 
farm, passed to a more minute enquiry into my father's 
early days in Suffolk than he had before made, and drew 
from him the avowal, that, with respect to future affairs, 
he felt a strong partiality for the church. " It is most 
fortunate," said Mr. Burke, " that your father exerted 
himself to send you to that second school : without a 
little Latin we should have made nothing of you ; now, 
I think we shall succeed." The fund of general knowl- 
edge which my father gradually showed in these rambles, 
much surprised his patron. " Mr. Crabbe," he said 
early to Sir Joshua Reynolds, " appears to know some- 
thing of every thing." Burke himself was a strong 
advocate for storing the mind with multiform knowledge, 
rather than confining it to one narrow line of study ; and 
he often remarked, that there was no profession in which 
diversity of information was more useful, and indeed, 
necessary, than that of a clergyman. Having gone 
through the form — for it was surely little more — of ma- 
king proper enquiries as to the impression left of Mr. 
Crabbe's character in his native place, — Mr. Burke, 
though well aware of the difficulties of obtaining holy 
orders for any person not regularly educated, exerted 
himself to procure the assent, in this instance, of Dr. 
Yonge, the then Bishop of Norwich ; and in this, backed 
by. the favorable representations of Mr. Dudley North 
and Mr. Charles Long, he was eventually successful. 



94 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Meantime, nothing could be more cordial than the 
kindness with which ray father was uniformly treated at 
Beaconsfield. Let no one say that ambition chills the 
heart to other feelings. This obscure young writer 
could contribute in nothing to the reputation of a states- 
man and orator, at the very apex of influence and re- 
nown ; yet never had he been so affectionately received 
as when, a pennyless dependant, he first entered the hall 
of that beautiful mansion ; and, during the whole of his 
stay, he was cheered by a constancy of kind and polite 
attention, such as I fear to describe, lest I should be sus- 
pected of fond exaggeration. As a trivial specimen of 
the conduct of the lady of the house, I may mention, 
that, one day, some company of rank that had been ex- 
pected to dinner did not arrive, and the servants, in 
consequence, reserved for next day some costly dish that 
had been ordered. Mrs. Burke happened to ask for it ; 
and the butler saying, " It had been kept back, as the 
company did not come" — she answered, "What! is 
not Mr. Crabbe here? let it be brought up immediately." 
It is not always that ladies enter so warmly into the feel- 
ings of their husbands on occasions of this sort. Mrs. 
Burke and her niece were afterwards indefatigable in 
promoting the sale of " The Library," both by letters 
and by personal application. 

My father was introduced, while under this happy roof, 
to Mr. Fox, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and many others of 
Mr. Burke's distinguished friends, who, like himself, en- 
couraged the young adventurer with approbation ; and 
for Sir Joshua, in particular, he conceived a warm and 
grateful attachment, which subsequent experience only 
confirmed. When Mr. Burke's family returned to Lon- 



BEACONSFIELD. 95 

don for the winter, my father accompanied them ; and, 
it being inconvenient for them to afford him an apartment 
at that time in their town house, he took lodgings in its 
neighbourhood. He, however, continued to dine com- 
monly at Mr. Burke's table, and was introduced by him 
to several of the clubs of which he w^as a member, and 
gradually, I believe, to all those of his friends who took 
any interest in literature. But it was at Sir Joshua's 
table that he first had the honor of meeting Dr. Johnson ;' 
and I much regret that so little is in my power to tell of 
their intercourse. My father, however, said, that, at this 
first interview, he was particularly unfortunate : making 
some trite remark, or hazarding some injudicious ques- 
tion, he brought on himself a specimen of that castiga- 
tion which the great literary bashaw was commonly so 
ready to administer. He remembered with half comic 
terror the Doctor's ^ro7/>/; but this did not diminish Mr. 
Crabbe's respect and veneration for the Doctor, nor did 
his mal-d-propos, on the other hand, prevent Johnson 
from giving him a most courteous reception, when, at 
Burke's suggestion, he some days afterwards called on 
him in Bolt Court. He then expressed no little interest 
in his visiter's success ; and proved his sincerity by the 
attention with which he subsequently read and revised 
" The Village." Had I contemplated this narrative 
somewhat earlier, and led my father, with a view to it, 
to converse on the great men he met with at this time of 
his life, I might, no doubt, have obtained some curious 
information. But, in truth, he had neither the turn, nor 
much of the talent for the retention of conversations ; 
and even what he did remember, he was not always dis- 
posed to communicate. One maxim of Johnson's, how- 



96 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

ever, had made a strong impression on him: ''Never 
fear putting the strongest and best things you can think 
of into the mouth of your speaker, whatever may be his 
condition."* 

When " The Library " was published, the opinion of 
Burke had its effect upon the conductors of the various 
periodical works of the time ; the poet received commen- 
datory critiques from the very gentlemen who had 
hitherto treated him with such contemptuous coldness ; 
and though his name was not in the title-page, it was 
universally known. 

Burke rejoiced in the success of his i^rotege ; but, 
promising as the young author's prospects now appeared 
to be, the profits of so small a poem could not have been 
considerable ; and his being accustomed to appear at 
such tables as those of Mr. Burke and Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds, implied a certain degree of expense in articles of 
dress, so that, his modesty preventing him from stating 
his exact case to his ever-generous patron, — while the 
patron on his part, having conferred such substantial 
benefits, had too much delicacy to make him feel de- 
pendent for alms, — my father was at this time occasion- 
ally reduced to distress for an immediate supply of 
money. In an interval of something like his former 
misery, — at all events, of painful perplexity, — he re- 
ceived a note from the Lord Chancellor, politely inviting 
him to breakfast the next morning. His kind patron 
had spoken of him in favorable terms to the stern and 
formidable Thurlow, and his Lordship was now anxious 
to atone for his previous neglect. He received Mr. 

* I owe this to the recollection of my father's friend, Miss 
Hoare, of Hampstead. 



"THE LIBRARY." 97 

Crabbe with more than courtesy, and most condescend- 
ingly said, " The first poem you sent me, Sir, I ought to 
have noticed — and I heartily forgive the second." They 
breakfasted together, and, at parting, his Lordship put a 
sealed paper into my father's hand, saying, " Accept this 
trifle, Sir, in the mean time, and rely on my embracing 
an early opportunity to serve you more substantially when 
I hear that you are in orders." As soon as he had left 
the house he opened the letter, expecting to find a pres- 
ent of ten, or perhaps twenty pounds ; it contained a 
bank note for a hundred ; a supply which effectually 
relieved him from all his present difficulties, while his 
new patron's accompanying promise must have eased 
him of any apprehensions which might yet haunt his 
mind as to his future prospects in the world. 

I am enabled to state — though the information never 
came from my father — that the first use he made of 
this good fortune was, to seek out and relieve some ob- 
jects of real indigence — poor scholars like himself, 
whom he had known when sharing their wretchedness 
in the city : and I must add, that, whenever he visited 
London in later years, he made it his business to enquire 
after similar objects of charity, supposed to be of re- 
spectable personal character, and to do by them as, in 
his own hour of distress, he would have been done by. 
But who knew better than he, that the metropolis has 
always abundance of such objects, if any one would 
search for them 1 or who, — I may safely appeal to all 
that knew him, — ever sacrificed time and trouble in the 
cause of benevolence, throughout every varying scene 
of his life, more freely than Mr. Crabbe ? No wonder 
it was his first thought, on finding himself in possession 
9 



98 LIFEOFCRABBE. 

of even a very slender fund, to testify his thankfulness 
to that Being who had rescued himself from the extreme 
of destitution, and to begin as early as possible to pay 
the debt he owed to misfortune. 

Mr. Crabbe, having passed a very creditable exami- 
nation, was admitted to deacon's orders, in London, on 
the 21st of December, by the Bishop of Norwich ; who 
ordained him a priest in August of the year following, 
in his own cathedral. Being licensed as curate to the 
Rev. Mr. Bennett, rector of Aldborough, he immediately 
bade a grateful adieu to his illustrious patron and his 
other eminent benefactors — not forgetting his kind and 
hospitable friends in Cornhill — and went down to take 
up his residence once more in his native place. 

The feelings with which he now returned to Aldbo- 
rough may easily be imagined. He must have been more 
than man had he not exulted at the change. He left 
his home a deserter from his profession, with the impu- 
tation of having failed in it from wanting even common 
abilities for the discharge of its duties — in the estima- 
tion of the ruder natives, who had witnessed his manual 
awkwardness in the seafaring pursuits of the place, " a 
lubber," and " a fool ; " perhaps considered even by 
those who recognised something of his literary talent, 
as a hare-brained visionary, never destined to settle to 
any thing with steadiness and sober resolution ; on all 
hands convicted certainly of the " crime of poverty," 
and dismissed from view as a destitute and hopeless out- 
cast. He returned, a man of acknowledged talents; 
a successful author, patronized and befriended by some 
of the leading characters in the kingdom ; and a cler- 
gyman, wdth every prospect of preferment in the church. 



ALDBOROUGH. 99 

His father had the candor to admit, that he had under- 
rated his poetical abilities, and that he had acted judi- 
ciously in trusting to the bent of nature, rather than 
persevering in an occupation for which he was, from the 
outset, peculiarly disqualified. The old man now glo- 
ried in the boldness of his adventure, and was proud of 
its success : he fondly transcribed " The Library " with 
his own hand ; and, in short, reaped the reward of his 
own early exertions to give his son a better education 
than his circumstances could well afford. 

On the state of mind with which the young clergyman 
now revisited Parham — on the beautiful and retributive 
conclusion thus afforded to the period of resignation and 
humble trust recorded in his " Journal to Mira," — I 
shall not attempt to comment. In the esteem of his 
ever encouraging and confiding friend there, he could 
not stand higher now than he had done when all the 
rest of the world despaired of or disowned him ; but, 
with the hospitality and kindness he had long experi- 
enced from her relations, there was now mingled a 
respect to which he had previously been a stranger. He 
heard no more taunts about that " d d learning." 

On his first entrance, however, into his father's house, 
at this time, his joyous feelings had to undergo a pain- 
ful revulsion. That affectionate parent, who would have 
lost all sense of sickness and suffering, had she wit- 
nessed his success, was no more : she had sunk under 
the dropsy, in his absence, with a fortitude of resigna- 
tion closely resembling that of his own last hours. It 
happened that a friend and a neighbour was slowly 
yielding at the same time to the same hopeless disorder, 
and every morning she used to desire her daughter to 



100 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

see if this sufferer's window was opened ; saying, cheer- 
fully, " she must make haste, or I shall be at rest before 
her." My father has alluded to his feelings on this oc- 
casion in the " Parish Register." 

'• Arrived at home, how then he gazed around 
On every place where she no more was found ; 
The seat at table she was wont to fill, 
The fireside chair, still set, hut vacant still ; 
The Sunday pew she filled with all her race, — 
Each place of hers was now a sacred place." 

And I find him recurring to the same theme in one of 
his manuscript pieces : — 

" But oh ! in after-years 
Were other deaths that called for ather tears r — 
No, that I dare not, that I cannot paint ! 
The patient sufferer ! the enduring saint ! 
Holy and cheerful ! but all words are faint ! " 

Mr. Crabbe's early religious impressions were, no 
doubt, strongly influenced by those of his mother ; and 
she was, as I have already said, a deeply devout woman ; 
but her seriousness was not of the kind that now almost 
exclusively receives that designation. Among persons 
of her class, at least at that period, there was a general 
impression that the doctrinal creed ought rather to be 
considered the affair of the pastor than of the humble 
and unlearned members of his flock — that the former 
would be held responsible for the tenets he inculcated — 
the latter for the practical observance of those rules of 
conduct and temper which good men of all persuasions 
alike advocate and desire to exemplify. The contro- 
versial spirit, in a word, lighted up by Whitfield and 
Wesley, had not as yet reached the coast of Suffolk. 



ALDBOROUGH. 101 

Persons turned through misfortune, sickness, or any 
other exciting cause, to think with seriousness of secur- 
ing their salvation, were used to say to themselves, " I 
must amend and correct whatever in my life and con- 
versation does offend the eyes of my Heavenly Father ; 
I must henceforth be diligent in my duties, search out 
and oppose the evil in my heart, and cultivate virtuous 
dispositions and devout affections." Not from their own 
strength, however, did they hope and expect such im- 
provement : they sought it from, and ascribed it to, 
" Him from whom all good counsels and works do pro- 
ceed," and admitted, without hesitation, that their own 
best services could be made acceptable only through the 
merits of their Redeemer. Thus far such persons ac- 
corded with the more serious of a later period ; but the 
subtle distinction between good works as necessary and 
yet not conditional to salvation, and others of a like 
kind, particularly prevalent afterwards, were not then 
familiar ; nor was it at all common to believe, that 
Christians ought to renounce this world, in any other 
sense than that of renouncing its wickedness, or that 
they are called upon to shun any thing but the excessive 
indulgence in amusements and recreations not in them- 
selves palpably evil. Such was the religion of Mrs. 
Crabbe ; and, doubtless, her mildness, humility, patient 
endurance of afflictions and sufferings, meek habits, and 
devout spirit, strongly recommended her example to her 
son, and impressed his young mind with a deep belief that 
the principles which led to such practice, must be those 
of the Scriptures of God, 

It is true that neither the precepts nor the example of 
his mother were able altogether to preserve Mr. Crabbe 
9* 



102 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

from the snares that beset, with peculiar strength, young 
men early removed from the paternal roof. The juvenile 
apprentice is in many respects too much his own master ; 
and though my father, in his first service, escaped with 
no worse injury than the association with idle lads gene- 
rally brings with it, yet, in his second apprenticeship, 
and afterwards, in the beginning of his own practice at 
Aldborough, he did not scruple to confess that he was 
not always proof against the temptations of a town. 
Where 

" High in the street, o'erlooking all the place, 
The rampant lion shows his kingly face " — 

the Aldborough Boniface of the present day, shows, I am 
told, with no little exultation, an old-fashioned room, the 
usual scene of convivial meetings, not always remarkable 
for " measured merriment," in which the young doctor 
had his share. It seems probable that the seriousness 
and purity of his early impressions had, for a season, 
been smothered : but they were never obliterated ; and 
I believe I do not err in tracing to the severe illness 
which befell him not long after he had commenced as 
surgeon at Aldborough, their revival and confirmation 
— a strong and a permanent change. On his recovery 
from an affliction, during which he had felt that life hung 
by a thread, he told his children that he made a solemn 
resolution against all deliberate evil ; and those who ob- 
served him after that period all concur in stating his 
conduct and conversation to have been that of a regular, 
temperate, and religious young man. 

When his sister and he kept house apart from the rest 
of the family, it was their invariable practice to read a 
portion of the Scriptures together every evening ; and 



ALDBOROUGH. 103 

even while struggling with the difficulties of his medical 
occupation, poetry was not the only literary diversion he 
indulged in. His early note-books, now before me, con- 
tain proofs that he was in the habit of composing ser- 
mons, in imitation of Tillotson, long before he could 
have had the least surmise that he was ever to be a 
preacher. Indeed, the " Journal to Mira" contains such 
evidence of the purity of his conduct, and of the habitu- 
al attention he paid to religious topics, that I need not 
enlarge further upon the subject. He certainly was not 
guilty of rushing into the service of the altar without 
having done his endeavour to discipline himself for a due 
discharge of its awful obligations, by cultivating the 
virtues of Christianity in his heart, and, in as far as his 
opportunities extended, making himself fit to minister to 
the spiritual necessities of others. But I am bound to 
add, that in a later period of life, and more especially 
during the last ten years of it, he became more conscious 
of the importance of dwelling on the doctrines as well as 
the practice of Christianity, than he had been when he 
first took orders ; and when a selection of his Sermons 
is placed, as I hope it ere long will be, before the public, 
it will be seen that he had gradually approached, in sub- 
stantial matters, though not exactly in certain peculiar 
ways of expression, to that respected body usually de- 
nominated Evangelical Christians of the Church of 
England ; with whom, nevertheless, he was never class- 
ed by others, nor, indeed, by himself. 

And what, it will naturally be asked, was his reception 
by the people of Aldborough, when he reappeared among 
them in this new character ? " The prophet is not with- 
out honor, save in his own country : " — this scriptural 



104 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

proverb was entirely exemplified here. The whisper ran 
through the town, that a man who had failed in one 
calling, was not very likely to make a great figure in a 
new one. Others revived, most unjustly, old stories, in 
which my father did not appear with quite clerical de- 
corum ; and others again bruited about a most groundless 
rumor that he had been, when in London, a preacher 
among the Methodists. For this last report there was, 
indeed, no foundation at all, except that an Aldborough 
sailor, happening one day to enter Mr. Wesley's chapel 
at Mooriields, had perceived my father, who had gone 
thither, like himself, from pure curiosity, standing on the 
steps of the pulpit ; the place being so crowded that he 
could find no more convenient situation. But perhaps 
the most common, as well as unworthy, of all the rumors 
afloat, was, that he had been spoiled by the notice of 
fine folks in town, and would now be too proud to be 
bearable among his old equals. When I asked him how 
he felt when he entered the pulpit at Aldborough for the 
first time, he answered, " I had been unkindly received 
in the place — I saw unfriendly countenances about me, 
and, I am sorry to say, I had too much indignation, — 
though mingled, I hope, with better feelings, — to care 
what they thought of me or my sermon." Perhaps, as 
he himself remarked, all this may have been well ordered 
for my father. Had there been nothing to operate as an 
antidote, the circumstances of his altered position in 
life might have tempted human infirmity, even in him, 
to a vain-glorious self-esteem. 

He appears to have ere long signified some uneasiness 
of feeling to the Lord Chancellor, whose very kind an- 
swer concluded in these words : — "I can form no opin- 



ALDBOROUGH. 105 

ion of your present situation or prospects, still less upon 
the agreeableness of it ; but you may imagine that I wish 
you well, and, if you make yourself capable of prefer- 
ment, that I shall try to find an early opportunity of 
serving you. I am, with great regard, dear Sir, your 
faithful friend and servant, Thurlow." 



106 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

CHAPTER V. 

1762 — 1783. 

MR. craebe's appointment as domestic chaplain to 

THE DUKE OF RUTLAND. REMOVES TO BELVOIR CAS- 
TLE. PUBLICATION OF " THE VILLAGE." 

My father continued to be curate at Aldborough for 
only a few months, during which his sister resumed the 
charge of his domestic affairs, in a small lodging apart 
from the rest of the family. His brother Robert, a man 
in many respects closely resembling himself, of strong 
faculties and amiable disposition, was now settled at 
Southwold ; but the two brothers, much attached to 
each other's society, made a point of meeting one evening 
of each week at Blythborough, about half way between 
their places of residence. I need hardly add, that my 
father passed also a considerable part of his time under 
the same roof with Miss Elmy, who still prudently resisted 
every proposition of immediate marriage, being resolv- 
ed not to take such a step until her lover should have 
reached some position less precarious than that of a mere 
curate. 

Most persons who had done as much for one in my 
father's situation as Mr. Burke had already accomplished, 
would no doubt have been disposed to say, or to think, 
" Now, young man, help yourself: " but it was far other- 
wise with Mr. Crabbe's illustrious benefactor. He was 
anxious to see his "protege raised as high as his friend- 
ship could elevate him ; and he soon was the means of 
placing him in a station such as has, in numerous in- 



BELVOIR CASTLE. X07 

stances, led to the first dignities of the church. My father 
received a letter from Mr. Burke, informing him that, in 
consequence of some conversation he had held with the 
Duke of Rutland, that nobleman would willingly receive 
him as his domestic chaplain at Belvoir Castle, so soon 
as he could get rid of his existing engagements at Aid- 
borough. This was a very unusual occurrence, such 
situations in the mansions of that rank being commonly 
filled either by relations of the noble family itself, or by 
college acquaintances, or dependants recommended by 
political service and local attachment. But, in spite of 
political difference, the recommendation of Burke was 
all-powerful with the late Duke of Rutland, the son of 
the great Marquis of Granby ; for this nobleman, though 
not what is usually called a literary man, had a strong 
partiality for letters, a refined taste for the arts, and felt 
that a young author of such genius as Burke had imputed 
to my father would be a valuable acquisition to the soci- 
ety of his mansion, where, like a genuine English peer of 
the old school, he spent the greater portion of his time in 
the exercise of boundless hospitality and benevolence. 
My father did not hesitate, of course, to accept the offer- 
ed situation ; and having taken farewell for a season of 
his friends at Parham, he once more quitted Aldborough, 
but not now in the hold of a sloop, nor with those gloomy 
fears and trembling anticipations, which had agitated his 
mind on a former occasion. He was now morally sure 
of being, within no long interval, placed in a situation 
that would enable him to have a house and a wife of his 
own, and to settle for life in the enjoyment of at least a 
moderate competency. 



108 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

What his hopes exactly amounted to when this change 
took place, or what apprehensions chequered them when 
he approached Belvoir, or what were his impressions on 
his first reception there, are questions which I never ven- 
tured to ask of him. It would have been highly interest- 
ing, certainly, to have his remarks on what now befell 
him at the opening of so new a scene of life, recorded in 
another " Journal to Mira ; " but none such has been 
discovered. He always seemed to shrink from going into 
oral details on the subject. The numberless allusions to 
the nature of a literary dependant's existence in a great 
lord's house, which occur in my father's writings, and 
especially in the tale of " The Patron," are, however, 
quite enough to lead any one who knew his character 
and feelings to the conclusion that, notwithstanding the 
kindness and condescension of the Duke and Duchess 
themselves — which were, I believe, uniform, and of 
which he always spoke with gratitude, — the situation he 
filled at Belvoir was attended with many painful circum- 
stances, and productive in his mind of some of the 
acutest sensations of wounded pride that have ever been 
traced by any pen. 

The Duchess* was then the most celebrated beauty in 
England ; and the fascinating grace of her manners 
made the due impression on my father. The Duke 
himself was a generous man, '' cordial, frank, and free ; " 
and highly popular with all classes. His establishments 
of race-horses, hunters, and hounds, were extensive, be- 
cause it was then held a part of such a nobleman's duty 

* Lady Mary-Isabella Somerset, daughter of the late Duke of 
Beaufort. She died in 1831. 



BELVOIR CASTLE. 109 

that they should be so ; but these things were rather for 
the enjoyment of his friends than for his own. He was 
sufficiently interested in such recreations to join in them 
occasionally ; but he would frequently dismiss a splendid 
party from his gates, and himself ride, accompanied only 
by Mr. Crabbe, to some sequestered part of his domain, 
to converse on literary topics, quote verses, and criticise 
plays. Their Graces' children were at this period still 
in the nursery. 

The immediate chiefs of the place, then, were all that 
my father could have desired to find them ; but their 
guests, and, above all, perhaps, their servants, might not 
always treat him with equal respect. I must add, that 
although the state of the castle was by no means more 
strict than is usual in great establishments — and certain- 
ly not marked by the princely dignity and grandeur that 
have distinguished Belvoir in our own day — yet it could 
not but have been oppressive to a person of Mr. Crabbe's 
education and disposition. He might not, I can well 
believe, catch readily the manners appropriate to his sta- 
tion, — his tact was not of that description, — and he 
ever had an ardent passion for personal liberty, inconsist- 
ent with enjoyment under the constraint of ceremony. 
With great pleasure, then, did he always hear of the 
preparations for removing to Chevely, about the periods 
of the Newmarket races ; for all there was freedom and 
ease ; that house was small, the servants few, and the 
habits domestic. There was another occasion, also, on 
which ceremony was given to tlie winds — when the 
family resorted to Croxton Park (a small seat near Bel- 
voir), to fish in the extensive ponds, &c. These times 
of relaxation contrasted delightfully with the etiquette at 
10 



110 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

the castle. After more than usual ceremony, or more 
abundant conviviality, I have heard him speak of the 
relief and pleasure of wandering through the deep glades 
and secluded paths of the woods, catching beetles, moths, 
and butterflies, and collecting mosses, lichens, or other 
botanical specimens ; for this employment carried his 
imagination to those walks in which he had wandered so 
frequently with his best friend, his chosen companion ; 
and he already longed for the period when he could call 
a country parsonage his own : nay, he was sometimes 
tempted to wish to exchange his station for a much more 
humble dwelling, and in this mood he once composed 
some verses, which I have heard him repeat, acknowl- 
edging they were not of the most brilliant description. 

" Oh ! had I but a little hut, 

That I might hide my head in ; 
Where never guest might dare molest 
Unwelcome or unbidden. 

I 'd take the jokes of other folks, 
And mine should then succeed 'em, 

Nor would I chide a little pride, 
Or heed a little freedom." &,c. &c. 

Such lines might easily run from the pen from which 
came, in after-days, — 

" Strive not too much for favor — seem at ease. 
And rather pleased thyself, than bent to please. 
Upon thy lord with decent care attend ; 
Be not too near — thou canst not be a friend : . . . . 

" When ladies ^^ing, or in thy presence play. 
Do not, dear John, in rapture melt away : 
'T is not thy part ; there will be listeners round 
To cry divine, and doat upon the sound : 
Remember, too, that though the poor have ears, 
They take not in the music of the spheres." 



BELVOIR CASTLE. m 

I have heard my father mention but few occurrences 
in this period of his life ; and if I had, the privacy of a 
family is not to be invaded because of its public station. 
But one incident I cannot forbear to mention, as it mark- 
ed a trait in the Duke's mind peculiarly pleasing — his 
strong affection for his brother, Lord Robert Manners, 
who died of wounds received in leading his Majesty's 
ship Resolution against the enemy's line, in the West 
Indies, on the memorable 12th of April, 1782. Some 
short time previous to his Lordship's death, his hat, per- 
forated with balls, was sent at the Duke's request to 
Belvoir Castle. The Duke first held it up with a shout 
of exultation and triumph — glorying in the bravery of 
his beloved brother ; and then, as the thought of his 
danger flashed suddenly into his mind, sank on his chair 
in a burst of natural and irrepressible feeling. 

Mr. Crabbe was particularly attached to the unfortu- 
nate Mr. Robert Thoroton, a relative of the family, who 
generally resided at the castle. He was, it is true, a 
man of pleasure, and of the world, but distinguished by 
warm, frank-hearted kindness, and ever evinced a par- 
ticular predilection to my father. He was remarked, 
even in the Belvoir hunt, for intrepid boldness, and once 
spurred his horse up the steep terraces to the castle-walls 
— a mad feat ! Nor was he much less rash when, as my 
father one day (in an unusual fit of juvenile merriment) 
was pursuing him, he sprang over the boundary of the 
glacis — a steep and formidable precipice. He after- 
wards accompanied the Duke to Ireland, and is men- 
tioned in the singular work of Sir Jonah Barrington. 
After the Duke's death, he was involved in difficulties ; 
and, under the maddening sufferings of an incurable 



112 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

disorder, he terminated his existence. Among the pub- 
lic characters of that time, the visiters at Belvoir who 
paid the most attention to Mr. Crabbe were the Duke of 
Queensberry, the Marquis of Lothian, Dr. Watson the 
celebrated Bishop of Llandaff, and Dr. Glynn. 

A few months after Lord Robert's death, ray father 
accompanied his Grace for a few days to London, and 
went with him to the studio of the royal academician 
Stothard, where he consoled his sorrow by giving direc- 
tions for the painting of the beautiful picture from which 
the well-known print of the melancholy event is en- 
graved. It seems to have been on this occasion that he 
received the following letter — 

From Mr. Burke. 

" Dear Sir, — I do not know by what unlucky accident 
you missed the note I left for you at my house. I wM'ote 
besides to you at Belvoir. If you had received these two 
short letters you could not want an invitation to a place 
where every one considers himself as infinitely honored and 
pleased by your presence. — Mrs. Burke desires her best 
compliments, and trusts that you will not let the holidays 
pass over without a visit from you. I have got the poem ; 
but I have not yet opened it. I don't like the unhappy 
language you use about these matters. You do not easil}^ 
please such a judgment as your own — that is natural ; but 
where you are difficult every one else will be charmed. I 
am, my dear Sir, ever most affectionately yours, 

" Edmund Burke." 

By the time the family left Belvoir for the London 
season, my father had nearly completed for the press 
his poem of " The Village," the conclusion of which 
had been suggested by the untimely death of Lord 



BELVOIR CASTLE. 113 

Robert Manners. Through Sir Joshua Reynolds, he 
transmitted it to Dr. Johnson, whose kindness was such, 
that he revised it carefully, and whose opinion of its 
merits was expressed in a note which, though it has 
often been printed, I must allow myself the gratification 
of transcribing here. 

Dr. Johnson to Sir Joshua Reynolds. 

" March 4, 1783. 
" Sir, — I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which 
I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and 
elegant. The alterations which I have made, I do not 
require him to adopt ; for my lines are, perhaps, not often 
better than his own : but he may take mine and his own 
together, and, perhaps, between them, produce something 
better than either. He is not to think his copy wantonly 
defaced : a wet sponge will wash all the red lines away, 
and leave the pages clean. His dedication will be least 
liked : it were better to contract it into a short sprightly 
address. I do not doubt of Mr. Crabbe's success, I am. 
Sir, your most humble servant, 

" Samuel Johnson." 

Boswell says, ^' the sentiments of Mr. Crabbe's ad- 
mirable poem, as to the false notions of rustic happiness 
and rustic virtue, were quite congenial with Dr. John- 
son's own ; and he took the trouble, not only to suggest 
slight corrections and variations, but to furnish some 
lines, when he thought he could give the writer's mean- 
ing better than in the words of the manuscript. I shall 
give an instance, marking the original by Roman, and 
Johnson's substitution in Italic characters : " 

** • In fairer scenes, where peaceful pleasures spring, 
Tityrus the pride of Mantuan swains might sing : 

10* 



114 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

But, charmed by him, or smitten with his views. 
Shall modern poets court the Mantuan muse ? 
From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray, 
Where Fancy leads, or Virgil led the way? ' 

" ' On Mincio's banks, in Casar's bounteous reign. 
If Tityrus found the golden age again, 
Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong. 
Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song 7 
From Truth and JVature shall we widely stray. 
Where Virgil, not where fancy leads the way 1 ' 

" Here," says Boswell, ''we find Dr. Johnson's poet- 
ical and critical powers undiminished. I must, however, 
observe, that the aids he gave to this poem, as to ' The 
Traveller ' and ' Deserted Village ' of Goldsmith, were 
so small, as by no means to impair the distinguished 
merit of the author." * Mr. Boswell ought to have ad- 
ded, that the six lines he quotes formed the only passage 
in the poem that was not in substance quite the author's 
own. The manuscript was also again submitted to the 
inspection of Mr. Burke ; and he proposed one or two 
trivial alterations, which my father's grateful feelings 
induced him to adopt, although they did not appear to 
himself improvements. There were not wanting, I have 
heard, friends in Suffolk, who, when " The Village " 
came out, whispered that " the manuscript had been so 
cobbled by Burke and Johnson, that Crabbe did not 
know it again when it was returned to him." If these 
kind persons survived to read '* The Parish Register," 
their amiable conjectures must have received a sufficient 
rebuke. 

" The Village " was published in May, 1783 ; and 

* Croker's Boswell, vol. v. p. 55. 



"THE VILLAGE." X15 

its success exceeded the author's utmost expectations. 
It was praised in the leading journals ; the sale was 
rapid and extensive ; and my father's reputation was, by 
universal consent, greatly raised, and permanently estab- 
lished, by this poem. *' The Library," and " The Vil- 
lage," are sufficient evidence of the care and zeal with 
which the young poet had studied Pope ; and, without 
doubt, he had gradually, though in part perhaps uncon- 
sciously, formed his own style mainly on that polished 
model. But even those early works, and especially " The 
Village," fairly entitled Mr. Crabbe to a place far above 
the "' mechanic echoes " of the British Virgil. Both 
poems are framed on a regular and classical plan, — 
perhaps, in that respect, they may be considered more 
complete and faultless than any of his later pieces ; and 
though it is only here and there that they exhibit that 
rare union of force and minuteness for which the author 
was afterwards so highly distinguished, yet such traces 
of that marked and extraordinary peculiarity appeared 
in detached places — above all, in the description of the 
Parish Workhouse in "The Village" — that it is no 
wonder the new poet should at once have been hailed as 
a genius of no slender pretensions. 

The sudden popularity of " The Village " must have 
produced, after the numberless slights and disappoint- 
ments already mentioned, and even after the tolerable 
success of " The Library," about as strong a revulsion 
in my father's mind as a ducal chaplaincy in his circum- 
stances; but there was no change in his temper or 
manners. The successful author continued as modest as 
the rejected candidate for publication had been patient 
and long-suffering. 



115 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

No sleeping apartment being vacant at the Duke of 
Rutland's residence in Arlington Street, Mr. Crabbe ac- 
cidentally procured the very rooms shortly before occu- 
pied by the highly talented, but rash and miserable 
Hackman, the infatuated admirer and assassin of the 
beautiful mistress of the Earl of Sandwich. Here he 
again found himself in that distinguished society into 
which Mr. Burke had introduced him. He now very 
frequently passed his mornings at the easel of Sir Joshua 
Reynolds, conversing on a variety of subjects, while this 
distinguished artist was employed upon that celebrated 
painting the Infant Hercules,* then preparing for the 
Empress of Russia. 

I heard him speak of no public character of that time 
(except Mr. Burke) with that warmth of feeling with 
which he regarded Sir Joshua. I have no doubt but 
that, in some respects, there was a similarity of character 
— an enlarged mind, and the love of ease and freedom, 
were common to both ; but it is probable that those 
qualities also prepossessed my father greatly in his favor 
which he himself did not possess. Sir Joshua was 
never apparently discomposed by any thing under the 
sun — under all circumstances, and at all times, he was 
ever the same cheerful, mild companion, the same perfect 
gentleman — happy, serene, and undisturbed. My fa- 
ther spoke with particular pleasure of one day passed at 
that house, when his Grace of Rutland and a select 
company dined there — Miss Palmer, the great artist's 
niece, afterwards Marchioness of Thomond, presiding. 

* Sir Joshua mentioned that this was his fourth painting on the 
same canvass. 



"THE VILLAGE." II7 

The union of complete, and even homely, comfort and 
ease with perfect polish and the highest manners, had in 
it a charm which impressed the day especially on his 
memory. 

It was now considered desirable that Mr. Crabbe, as 
the chaplain to a nobleman, should have a university 
degree ; and the Bishop of Llandaff (Dr. Watson) very 
kindly entered his name on the boards of Trinity Col- 
lege, Cambridge, that he might have the privilege of a 
degree, after a certain number of terms, and without 
residence. 

This arrangement, however, had hardly been made, 
when he received an invitation to dine with Lord Thur- 
low ; and this is another of those incidents in his life, 
which I much regret that he himself has given no ac- 
count of; for I should suppose many expressions charac- 
teristic of the rousjh old Chancellor mio;ht have been 
recorded. My father only said, that, before he left the 
house, his noble host, telling him, that, " by G — d, he 
was as like Parson Adams as twelve to a dozen," gave 
him the small livings of Frome St. Quintin, and Ever- 
shot, in Dorsetshire ; and Mr. Crabbe, that he might be 
entitled to hold this preferment, immediately obtained 
the degree of LL.B. from the Archbishop of Canterbury 
(Dr. Moore), instead of waiting for it at Cambridge. 

In the autumn of 1783, after a long absence, my 
father went to Suffolk ; and Miss Elmy being then at 
Beccles with her mother, he bent his steps thither ; and 
it was in one of their rides in that neighbourhood, that 
they had the good fortune to view the great and memo- 
rable meteor which appeared in the month of August in 
that year. At that moment my mother and he were re- 



118 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

turning, in the evening, over a wide open common near 
Beccles. It was late, dull, and cloudy : in an instant 
the dark mass opened just in front of them. The clouds 
were rolled back like a scroll ; and the glorious phenom- 
enon burst forth as large as the moon, but infinitely more 
brilliant; majestically sailed across the heavens, varying 
its form every instant, and, as it were, unfolding its sub- 
stance in successive sheaths of fire, and scattering lesser 
meteors, as it moved along. My mother, who happened 
to be riding behind, said that, even at that awful moment 
(for she concluded that the end of all things was at 
hand), she was irresistibly struck with my father's atti- 
tude. He had raised himself from his horse, lifted his 
arm, and spread his hand towards the object of admira- 
tion and terror, and appeared transfixed with astonish- 
ment. 

Mr. Crabbe returned from thence to Belvoir, and again 
went to London with the family at the latter end of the 
year. Being now in circumstances which enabled him 
to afford himself a view of those spectacles which he had 
hitherto abstained from, and with persons who invited 
him to accompany them, he went occasionally to the 
theatres, especially to see Mrs. Siddons. Of her talents 
he expressed, of course, the most unbounded admiration ; 
but I have heard him also speak of Mrs. Abingdon and 
Mrs. Jordan (the latter especially, in the character of 
Sir Harry Wildair), in such terms as proved that he fully 
appreciated the exquisite grace, and then unrivalled 
excellency, of those comic actresses. Being one night 
introduced by Mr. Thoroton into the box of the Prince 
of Wales's equerries, his royal highness enquired, with 
some displeasure, who he was that had so intruded there; 



LONDON. 119 

but hearing it was the poetical chaplain of his friend the 
Duke of Rutland, he expressed himself satisfied, and a 
short time after, Mr. Crabbe was presented to his royal 
highness by his noble patron. 

Before the end of the year 1783, it was fixed that his 
Grace of Rutland should soon be appointed Lord-Lieu- 
tenant of Ireland. Had the Chancellor's livings, which 
Mr. Crabbe held, been of any considerable value, he 
would no doubt have embraced this opportunity to retire 
and settle ; but the income derived from them was very 
trifling, and, as it happened, no preferment on the Bel- 
voir list was then vacant ; and therefore, when it was 
decided that he should remain on this side the Channel 
and marry, the Duke very obligingly invited him to make 
the castle his home, till something permanent could be 
arranged. At parting, the Duke presented him with a 
portrait of Pope, by Sir Godfrey Kneller, and assured him 
it was his intention to place him in an eligible situation 
on the first opportunity. He little thought at that time 
(his Grace being but a few months his senior) that he 
should never see his kind and noble patron again. 

By some it has been thought remarkable that Mr. 
Crabbe, recommended to the Duke of Rutland by such 
a character as Mr. Burke, and afterwards by his own 
reputation and conduct, should not have accompanied 
his Grace to Dublin, and finally been installed in a dig- 
nitary's seat in some Irish cathedral. Whether he had 
the offer of proceeding to Ireland I do not know, but it 
would have been extremely inconsistent with his strong 
attachment to Miss Elmy, and his domestic disposition 
and habits, to have accepted it ; and his irregular edu- 
cation was an effectual bar to any very high preferment 



120 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

in the church. That he should not desire to retain his 
chaplaincy was not only to be attributed to his wish to 
settle, but his consciousness that he was by no means 
calculated to hold such an office. In fact, neither na- 
ture nor circijmstances had qualified him for it. The 
aristocracy of genius approaches too near the aristocracy 
of station : superiority of talent is apt, without intention, 
to betray occasional presumption. It is true, subser- 
viency would be always despised ; but a cool, collected 
mind — never thrown off its guard — pleased with what 
passes — entering into the interests of the day, but never 
betrayed into enthusiasm, — is an indispensable qualifi- 
cation for that station. Mr. Crabbe could never con- 
ceal his feelings, and he felt strongly. He was not a 
stoic, and freedom of living was prevalent in almost all 
large establishments of that period ; and, when the con- 
versation was interesting, he might not always retire as 
early as prudence might suggest ; nor, perhaps, did he 
at all times put a bridle to his tongue, for he might feel 
the riches of his intellect more than the poverty of his 
station. It is also probable that, brought up in the 
warehouse of Slaughden, and among the uneducated, 
though nature had given him the disposition of a gentle- 
man — the politeness of a mild and Christian spirit — 
he may at that early period have retained some repulsive 
marks of the degree from whence he had so lately risen ; 
he could hardly have acquired all at once the ease and 
self-possession for which he was afterwards distinguished. 
I must also add, that, although he owed his introduction 
to Burke, his adherence, however mild, to the whig 
tenets of Burke's party may not have much gratified the 
circles of Belvoir. 



BELVOIR CASTLE. 121 

These circumstances will easily account for his not 
accompanying the family into Ireland, without supposing 
the least neglect or unkindness in his patrons, or any 
insensibility on their part to his sterling merits : on the 
contrary, he never ceased to receive from every indi- 
vidual of that noble house the strongest testimonies of 
their regard ; and he was not only most amply satisfied 
with the favors they had conferred, but felt a strong per- 
sonal attachment to the members of the family of both 
generations. 

A few weeks before the Duke embarked for Ireland, 
my father once more repaired to Suffolk, and hastened 
to Beccles with the grateful intelligence that he was at 
length entitled, without imprudence, to claim the long- 
pledged hand of Miss Elmy. 



11 



122 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

CHAPTER VI. 
1784—1792. 

MR. CRABBE MARRIES. — HE RESIDES SUCCESSIVELY AT 
BELVOIR CASTLE, AT HIS CURACY OP STATHERN, AND 
AT HIS RECTORY OF MUSTON. INCREASE OF HIS FAMI- 
LY. PUBLICATION OF " THE NEWSPAPER." VISITS 

AND JOURNEYS. HIS MODE OF LIFE, OCCUPATIONS, 

AND AMUSEMENTS. 

In the month of December, 1783, my father and 
mother were married in the church of Beccles, by the 
Rev. Peter Routh, father to the learned and venerable 
president of Magdalen College, Oxford. Shortly after, 
they took up their residence in the apartments destined 
for their use, at Bel voir Castle ; but, although there were 
many obvious advantages to a couple of narrow income 
in this position, and although the noble owner of the 
seat had given the most strict orders that their conven- 
ience should be consulted in every possible manner by 
his servants, it was soon found to be a disagreeable 
thing to inhabit the house, and be attended by the 
domestics, of an absent family ; and Mr. Crabbe, before 
a year and a half had elapsed, took the neighbouring 
curacy of Stathern, and transferred himself to the humble 
parsonage attached to that office, in the village of the 
same name. A child born to my parents, while still at 
Belvoir, survived but a few hours ; their next, the writer 
of these pages, saw the light at Stathern, in Novem- 
ber, 1785. They continued to reside in this obscure 
parsonage for four years ; during which two more 



STATHERN 



123 



children were added to their household, — John Crabbe, 
so long the affectionate and unwearied assistant of his 
father in his latter days (born in 1787), — and a daugh- 
ter (born in 1789), who died in infancy. 

Of these four years, my father often said they were, 
on the whole, the very happiest in his life. My mother 
and he could now ramble together at their ease, amidst 
the rich woods of Celvoir, without any of the painful 
feelings which had before chequered his enjoyment of 
the place : at home, a garden afforded him healthful 
exercise and unfailing amusement ; and his situation as 
a mere curate prevented him from being drawn into any 
sort of unpleasant disputes with the villagers about him. 
His great resource and employment was, I believe, from 
the first, the study of natural history : he cultivated 
botany, especially that of the grasses, with insatiable 
ardor. Entomology was another especial favorite ; and 
he gradually made himself expert in some branches of 
geological science also. He copied with his own hand 
several expensive works on such subjects, of which his 
situation could only permit him to obtain a temporary 
loan ; and, though manual dexterity was never his forte, 
he even drew and colored after the prints in some of 
these books with tolerable success : but this sort of 
labor, he, after a little while, discontinued, as an unprofit- 
able waste of time. I may also add, that, in accordance 
with the usual habits of the clergy then resident in the 
vale of Belvoir, he made some efforts to become a sports- 
man ; but he wanted precision of eye and hand to use 
the gun with success. As to coursing, the cry of the 
first hare he saw killed, struck him as so like the wail of 
an infant, that he turned heart-sick from the spot : and 



124 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

in a word, although Mr. Crabbe did, for a season, make 
his appearance now and then in a garb which none that 
knew him in his latter days could ever have suspected 
him of assuming, the velveteen jacket and all its appur- 
tenances were soon laid aside for ever. 

He had another employment, which, indeed, he never 
laid aside until, many years after this time, he became 
the rector of a populous toicn. At Stathern, and at all 
his successive country residences, my father continued 
to practise his original profession among such poor 
people as chose to solicit his aid. The contents of his 
medicine chest, and, among the rest, cordials, were ever 
at their service : he grudged no personal fatigue to at- 
tend the sick bed of the peasant, in the double capacity 
of physician and priest ; and had often great difficulty 
in circumscribing his practice strictly within the limits 
of the poor, for the farmers would willingly have been 
attended gratis also. On some occasions, he was obliged 
to act even as accoucheur. I cannot quit this matter 
without observing, that I have heard it said, by persons 
who had met my father in humble abodes of distress, 
that, however nature might have disqualified him for the 
art of the surgeon, he exhibited a sagacity which, under 
better circumstances, might have conducted him to no 
mean rank as a physician. 

In the course of 1784, my father contributed a brief 
memoir of Lord Robert Manners to the Annual Regis- 
ter, published by his friend, Mr. Dodsley ; and in 1785 
he appeared again as a poet. " The Newspaper," then 
published, was considered as in all respects of the same 
class and merits with <* The Library ; " and the author 
was anew encouraged by the critics, and by the opinions 



"THE NEWSPAPER." 125 

of Mr. Burke and others of his eminent friends in Lon- 
don, Yet, successful as his poetical career had been, 
and highly flattering as was the reception which his 
works had procured him in the polished circles of life, 
if we except a valueless sermon put forth on the death 
of his patron, the Duke of Rutland, in 1787, and a 
chapter on the Natural History of the Vale of Belvoir, 
which he contributed to Mr. Nichols's account of Leices- 
tershire, shortly afterwards, he from this time, withdrew 
entirely from the public view. His " Parish Register " 
was published at the interval of twenty-two years after 
"The Newspaper;" and, from his thirty-first year to 
his fifty-second, he buried himself completely in the 
obscurity of domestic and village life, hardly catching, 
from time to time, a single glimpse of the brilliant socie- 
ty in which he had for a season been welcomed, and 
gradually forgotten as a living author by the public, who 
only, generally speaking, continued to be acquainted 
with the name of Crabbe from the extended circulation 
of certain striking passages in his early poems, through 
their admission into *' The Elegant Extracts." It might, 
under such circumstances, excite little surprise, if I 
should skip hastily over the whole interval from 1785 to 
1807 — or even down to my father's sixtieth year (1813), 
when he at last reappeared in the metropolis, and fig- 
ured as a member of various literary institutions there, 
and among the lions, as they are called, of fashionable 
life ; — but I feel that, in doing so, I should be guilty of 
a grave omission ; and I hope the son of such a father 
will be pardoned for desiring to dwell a little on him as 
he appeared in those relations which are the especial 
test of moral worth — which, if well sustained, can im- 
11* 



126 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

part a brightness to the highest intellectual reputation, 
and which dwell on my memory as affording the most 
estimable traits of his character. 

Not long after his marriage, in passing through Lon- 
don, on his way to visit his livings in Dorsetshire, he had 
the satisfaction of presenting his wife to Mr. and Mrs. 
Burke, when he and she experienced the kindest recep- 
tion ; but this was only a casual glimpse of his illustrious 
friend. I believe my father offered him the dedication 
of " The Newspaper," as well as some of his earlier 
publications ; but that great man, probably from mod- 
esty, declined any thing of this kind ; and as for Dr. 
Johnson, who, no doubt, must have been the next in his 
view, that giant of literature was by this time lost to the 
world. In Dorsetshire, they were hospitably received by 
Mr. Baker, once a candidate for that county ; and they 
returned charmed with their excursion, yet resumed 
with undiminished zest the enjoyment of their own 
quiet little parsonage. 

Never, indeed, was any man more fitted for domestic 
life than my father ; and, but for circumstances not 
under his control, — especially the delicate state of 
health into which my mother ere long declined, — I am 
sure no man would have enjoyed a larger share of every 
sort of domestic happiness. His attachment to his 
family was boundless ; but his contentment under a long 
temporary oblivion may also, in great part, be accounted 
for, by the unwearied activity of his mind. As the chief 
characteristic of his heart was benevolence, so that of 
his mind was a buoyant exuberance of thought and per- 
petual exercise of intellect. Thus he had an inexhausti- 
ble resource within himself, and never for a moment, I 



STATHERN. 127 

may say, suffered under that ennui which drives so many 
from solitude to the busy search for notoriety. I can 
safely assert that, from the earliest time I recollect him, 
down to the fifth or sixth year before his death, I never 
saw him (unless in company) seated in a chair, enjoying 
what is called a lounge — that is to say, doing nothing. 
Out of doors he had always some object in view — a 
flower, or a pebble, or his note-book, in his hand ; and 
in the house, if he was not writing, he was reading. He 
read aloud very often, even when walking, or seated by 
the side of his wife, in the huge old fashioned one-horse 
chaise, heavier than a modern chariot, in which they 
usually were conveyed in their little excursions, and the 
conduct of which he, from awkwardness and absence of 
mind, prudently relinquished to my mother on all occa- 
sions. Some may be surprised to hear me speak of his 
writing so much ; but the fact is, that though he for so 
many years made no fresh appeal to the public voice, he 
was all that time busily engaged in composition. Num- 
berless were the manuscripts which he completed ; and 
not a ^ew of them were never destined to see the light. 
I can well remember more than one grand incremation, 
— not in the chimney, for the bulk of paper to be con- 
sumed would have endangered the house, — but in the 
open air, — and with what glee his children vied in as 
sisting him, stirring up the fire, and bringing him fresh 
loads of the fuel as fast as their little legs would enable 
them. What the various works thus destroyed treated 
of, I cannot tell ; but among them was an Essay on 
Botany in English ; which, after he had made great 
progress in it, my father laid aside, in consequence mere- 
ly, I believe, of the remonstrances of the late Mr. Davies, 



128 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

vice-master of Trinity College, Cambridge, with whom 
he had become casually acquainted, and who, though 
little tinged with academical peculiarities, could not 
stomach the notion of degrading such a science by treat- 
ing of it in a modern language. 

My father used to say that, had this treatise come out 
at the time when his friend arrested its progress, he 
would have had the honor of being considered as the 
first discoverer of more than one addition to the British 
Flora, since those days introduced to notice, classed and 
named, by other naturalists. I remember his mention- 
ing, as one instance, the humble trefoil, now known as 
the TrifoUum siiffocatum. But, even if Mr. Crabbe had 
sent no ** Parish Register" before him, when he, after 
his long retirement, reappeared in the upper walks of 
life, there would have been no possibility of suspecting 
that his village existence had been one of intellectual 
torpor. He mixed, on that occasion, with a much wider 
circle than that to which Burke introduced him ; and it 
was obvious to the few who could compare what he then 
was with what he had been on his first dehut, that all his 
social feelings had been quickened, all his mental powers 
expanded and strengthened, in the interval that had pass- 
ed. Why, such being the case, he for so great a period 
of his life remained unmoved by the stimuli of reputa- 
tion or money, or the pleasure of select society, is a 
question which will never, I suppose, be quite satisfac- 
torily answered. 

It was, T think, in the summer of 1787, that my father 
was seized, one fine summer's day, with so intense a 
longing to see the sea, from which he had never before 
been so long absent, that he mounted his horse, rode 



STATHERN. 129 

alone to the coast of Lincolnshire, sixty miles from his 
house, dipped in the waves that washed the beach of 
Aldborough, and returned to Stathern. 

During my father's residence here, and also at his 
other country places, he very rarely either paid or re- 
ceived visits, except in his clerical capacity ; but there 
was one friend whose expanding versatility of mind, and 
rare colloquial talents made him a most welcome visiter 
at Stathern — and he was a very frequent one. I allude 
to Dr. Edmund Cartwright, a poet and a mechanist of 
no small eminence, who at this period was the incumbent 
of Goadby, and occasionally lived there, though his prin- 
cipal residence was at Doncaster, where vast machines 
were worked under his direction. Few persons could 
tell a good story so well ; no man could make more of a 
trite one. I can just remember him — the portly, digni- 
fied old gentleman of the last generation — grave and 
polite, but full of humor and spirit. In the summer of 
1787, my father and mother paid Dr. Cartwright a visit 
at Doncaster ; but when she entered the vast building, 
full of engines thundering with resistless power, yet under 
the apparent management of children, the sight of the 
little creatures, condemned to such a mode of life in 
their days of natural innocence, quite overcame her feel- 
ings, and she burst into tears. On their return, Mrs. 
Elmy paid them a visit, and remained for some months 
with them. My mother's mother was a calm, composed, 
cheerful old lady, such as all admire, and as grandchil- 
dren adore. She had suffered many heavy afflictions, and 
had long made it her aim to suppress all violent emotions; 
and she succeeded, if perfect serenity of appearance, and 
the ultimate age of ninety-two be fair indications of the 
peace within. 



130 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

In October of the same year occurred a most unex- 
pected event, to which I have already alluded — the 
untimely death of the Duke of Rutland, at the viceregal 
palace, in Ireland. My father had a strong personal 
regard for his Grace, and grieved sincerely for the loss 
of a kind and condescending friend. Had he cherished 
ambitious views, he might have grieved for himself too. 
I have stated, that the Duke's disposition was generous 
and social : these traits meeting the spirit of the Irish, 
whom it was his wish to attach, and the customs of that 
period unhappily tempting him to prolong festivity, he 
became a prey to an attack of fever ; and the medical 
attendants were said to have overlooked that nice point, 
in inflammatory cases, where reduction should cease. 
He was only in the thirty-fifth year of his age ; leaving a 
young and lovely widow, with six children, the eldest in 
his ninth year. His remains were brought to Belvoir 
Castle, to be interred in the family vault at Bottesford, 
and my father, of course, was present at the melancholy 
solemnity. 

The widowed Duchess did not forget the protege of 
her lamented husband: kindly desirous of retaining him 
in the neighbourhood, she gave him a letter to the Lord 
Chancellor, earnestly requesting him to exchange the two 
small livings Mr. Crabbe held in Dorsetshire for two of 
superior value in the vale of Belvoir. My father pro- 
ceeded to London, but was not, on this occasion, very 
courteously received by Lord Thurlow. " No," he 
growled ; "by G — d, I will not do this for any man in 
England." But he did it, nevertheless, for a woman in 
England. The good Duchess, on arriving in town, wait- 
ed on him personally to renew her request ; and he 



MUSTON. X3X 

yielded. My father, having passed the necessary exami- 
nation at Lambeth, received a dispensation from the 
Archbishop, and became rector of Muston, in Leices- 
tershire, and the neighbouring parish of Allington, in 
Lincolnshire. 

It was on the 25th of February, 1789, that Mr. Crabbe 
left Stathern, and brought his family to the parsonage of 
Muston. Soon after this his father died. My grand- 
father, soon after my grandmother's death, had married 
again ; and his new wife bringing home with her several 
children by a former husband, the house became still 
more uncomfortable than it had for many years before 
been to the members of his own family. For many years, 
the old man's habits had been undermining his health ; 
but his end was sudden. 

I am now arrived at that period of my father's life, 
when I became conscious of existence ; when, if the 
happiness I experienced was not quite perfect, there was 
only alloy enough to make it felt the more. The reader 
himself will judge what must have been the lot of a 
child of such parents — how indulgence and fondness 
were mingled with care and solicitude. 

What a pity it seems that the poignant feelings of 
early youth should ever be blunted, and, as it were, 
absorbed in the interests of manhood ; that they cannot 
remain, together with the stronger stimuli of mature 
passions — passions so liable to make the heart ultimate- 
ly selfish and cold. It is true, no one could endure the 
thoughts of remaining a child for ever ; but with all that 
we gain, as we advance, some of the finer and better 
spirit of the mind appears to evaporate ; — seldom do we 
again feel those acute and innocent impressions, which 



132 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

recalling for a moment one could almost cry to retain. 
Now and then, under peculiar circumstances, this youth- 
ful tenderness of feeling does return, when the spirits are 
depressed either by fatigue or illness, or some other soft- 
ening circumstance ; and then, especially if we should 
happen to hear some pleasing melody, even chimes or 
distant bells, a flood of early remembrances and warm 
affections flows into the mind, and we dwell on the past 
with the fondest regret ; for such scenes are never to 
return : yet though painful, these impressions are ever 
mingled with delight ; we are tenacious of their duration, 
and feel the better for the transient susceptibility : — 
indeed transient ; for soon the music ceases, the fatigue 
yields to rest, the mind recovers its strength, and straight- 
way all is (to such salutary sensations) cold and insensi- 
ble as marble. Surely the most delightful ideas one 
could connect with this sublunary state would be a union 
of these vivid impressions of infancy with the warmth 
and purity of passion in early youth, and the judgment 
of maturity; — perhaps such a union might faintly 
shadow the blessedness that may be hereafter. 

How delightful is it to recall the innocent feelings of 
unbounded love, confidence, and respect, associated with 
my earliest visions of my parents. They appeared to 
their children no- only good, but free from any taint of 
the corruption common to our nature ; and such was the 
strength of the impressions then received, that hardly 
could subsequent experience ever enable our judgments 
to modify them. Many a happy and indulged child has, 
no doubt, partaken in the same fond exaggeration ; but 
ours surely had every thing to excuse it. 



M U S T N . -[33 

Always visibly happy in the happiness of others, espe- 
cially of children, our father entered into all our pleasures, 
and soothed and cheered us in all our little griefs with 
such overflowing tenderness, that it was no wonder we 
almost worshipped him. My first recollection of him is 
of his carrying me up to his private room to prayers, in 
the summer evenings, about sunset, and rewarding my 
silence and attention afterwards with a view of the flower- 
garden through his prism. Then I recall the delight it 
was to me to be permitted to sleep with him during a 
confinement of my mother's, — how I longed for the 
morning, because then he would be sure to tell me some 
fairy tale, of his own invention, all sparkling with gold 
and diamonds, magic fountains, and enchanted princesses. 
In the eye of memory I can still see him as he was at 
that period of his life, — his fatherly countenance, un- 
mixed with any of the less loveable expressions that, in 
too many faces, obscure that character — but preemi- 
nently /«^Aer/y ; conveying the ideas of kindness, intel- 
lect, and purity ; his manner grave, manly, and cheerful, 
in unison with his high and open forehead : his very 
attitudes, whether as he sat absorbed in the arrangement 
of his minerals, shells, and insects — or as he labored in 
his garden until his naturally pale complexion acquired a 
tinge of fresh healthy red ; or as, coming lightly towards 
us with some unexpected present, his smile of indescrib- 
able benevolence spoke exultation in the foretaste of our 
raptures. 

But, I think, even earlier than these are my first recol- 
lections of my mother. I think the very earliest is of her 
as combing my hair one evening, by the light of the fire, 
which hardly broke the long shadows of the room, and 
12 



134 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

singing the plaintive air of "Kitty Fell/' till, though I 
could not have been more than three years old, the melo- 
dy found its way into my heart, and the tears dropped 
down so profusely, that I was glad the darkness concealed 
them. - How mysterious is shame without guilt ! 

There are few situations on earth more enviable than 
that of a child on his first journey with indulgent 
parents ; there is perpetual excitement and novelty, — 
" omne ignotum pro magnifico,^^ — and at the same time 
a perfect freedom from care. This blessed ignorance of 
limits and boundaries, and absence of all forecast, form 
the very charm of the enchantment : each town appears 
indefinitely vast, each day as if it were never to have a 
close : no decline of any kind being dreamt of, the pres- 
ent is enjoyed in a way wholly impossible with those who 
have a long past to remember, and a dark future to anti- 
cipate. Never can I forget my first excursion into Suf- 
folk, in company with my parents. It was in the month 
of September, 1791, — (shortly after my mother had 
recovered from her confinement with her fourth son, 
Edmund Burke Crabbe, who died in infancy,) — that, 
dressed in my first suit of boy's clothes (and that scarlet), 
in the height of a delicious season, I was mounted beside 
them in their huge old gig, and visited the scenes and the 
persons familiar to me, from my earliest nursery days, in 
their conversation and anecdotes. Sometimes, as we 
proceeded, my father read aloud ; sometimes he left us 
for a while to botanise among the hedgerows, and return- 
ed with some unsightly weed or bunch of moss, to him 
precious. Then, in the evening, when we had reached 
our inn, the happy child, instead of being sent early as 
usual to bed, was permitted to stretch himself on the car- 



P A R H A M . 135 

pet, while the reading was resumed, blending with sounds 
which, from novelty, appeared delightful, — the buzzing 
of the bar, the rattling of wheels, the horn of the mail- 
coach, the gay clamor of the streets — every thing to 
excite and astonish, in the midst of safety and repose. 
My father's countenance at such moments is still before 
me : — with what gentle sympathy did he seem to enjoy 
the happiness of childhood ! 

On the third day we reached Parham, and I was 
introduced to a set of manners and customs, of which 
there remains, perhaps, no counterpart in the present 
day. My great-uncle's establishment was that of the 
first-rate yeoman of that period — the Yeoman that 
already began to be styled by courtesy an Enquire. 
Mr. Tovell might possess an estate of some eight hun- 
dred pounds per annum, a portion of which he himself 
cultivated. Educated at a mercantile school, he often 
said of himself, " Jack will never make a gentleman ; " 
yet he had a native dignity of mind and of manners, 
which might have enabled him to pass muster in that 
character with any but very fastidious critics. His house 
was large, and the surrounding moat, the rookery, the 
ancient dovecot, and the well-stored fishponds, were such 
as might have suited a gentleman's seat of some conse- 
quence ; but one side of the house immediately over- 
looked a farm-yard, full of all sorts of domestic animals, 
and the scene of constant bustle and noise. On enter- 
ing the house, there was nothing at first sight to remind 
one of the farm : — a spacious hall, paved with black 
and white marble, — at one extremity a very handsome 
drawing-room, and at the other a fine old staircase of 
black oak, polished till it was as slippery as ice, and 



136 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

having a chime-clock and a barrel-organ on its landing- 
places. But this drawing-room, a corresponding dining 
parlor, and a handsome sleeping apartment up stairs, 
were all tabooed ground, and made use of on great and 
solemn occasions only — such as rent-days, and an occa- 
sional visit with which Mr. Tovell was honored by a 
neighbouring peer. At all other times the family and 
their visiters lived entirely in the old-fashioned kitchen 
along with the servants. My great-uncle occupied an 
arm-chair, or, in attacks of gout, a couch on one side of 
a large open chimney. Mrs. Tovell sat at a small table, 
on which, in the evening, stood one small candle, in an 
iron candlestick, plying her needle by the feeble glim- 
mer, surrounded by her maids, all busy at the same 
employment; but in winter a noble block of wood, 
sometimes the whole circumference of a pollard, threw 
its comfortable warmth and cheerful blaze over the 
apartment. 

At a very early hour in the morning, the alarum 
called the maids, and their mistress also ; and if the 
former were tardy, a louder alarum, and more formidable, 
was heard chiding the delay — not that scolding was 
peculiar to any occasion, it regularly ran on through all 
the day, like bells on harness, inspiriting the work, 
whether it were done ill or well. After the important 
business of the dairy, and a hasty breakfast, their re- 
spective employments were again resumed ; that which 
the mistress took for her especial privilege, being the 
scrubbing of the floors of the state apartments. A new 
servant, ignorant of her presumption, was found one 
morning on her knees, hard at work on the floor of one 
of these preserves, and was thus addressed by her mis- 



PARHAM. 137 

tress : — " You wash such floors as these 1 Give me the 
brush this instant, and troop to the scullery and wash 

that, madam ! As true as G — d's in heaven, here 

comes Lord Rochford, to call on Mr. Tovell. — Here, 
take my mantle" (a blue woollen apron), " and I '11 go 
to the door ! " 

If the sacred apartments had not been opened, the 
family dined on this wise ; — the heads seated in the 
kitchen at an old table ; the farm-men standing in the 
adjoining scullery, door open — the female servants at 
aside table, called a houter ; — with the principals, at 
the table, perchance some travelling rat-catcher, or 
tinker, or farrier, or an occasional gardener in his shirt 
sleeves, his face probably streaming with perspiration. 
My father well describes, in '' The Widow's Tale," my 
mother's situation, when living in her younger days at 
Parham : — 

" But when the men beside their station took, 
The maidens with them, and with these the cook ; 
When one huge wooden bowl before them stood, 
Filled with huge balls of farinaceous food ; 
With bacon, mass saline ! where never lean 
Beneath the brown and bristly rind was seen : 
When, from a single horn the party drew 
Their copious draughts of heavy ale and new ; 
When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain. 
Soiled by rude hinds who cut and came again ; 
She could not breathe, but M'ith a heavy sigh, 
Reined the fair neck, and shut the offended eye ; 
She minced the sanguine flesh in frustums fine. 
And wondered much to see the creatures dine." 

On ordinary days, when the dinner was over, the fire 
replenished, the kitchen sanded and lightly swept over 
12* 



138 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

in waves, mistress and maids, taking off their shoes, 
retired to their chambers for a nap of one hour to the 
minute. The dogs and cats commenced their siesta by 
the fire. Mr. Tovell dozed in his chair, and no noise 
was heard, except the melancholy and monotonous coo- 
ing of a turtle-dove, varied, however, by the shrill treble 
of a canary. After the hour had expired, the active 
part of the family were on the alert, the bottles (Mr. 
Tovell's tea equipage) placed on the table ; and as if 
by instinct some old acquaintance would glide in for the 
evening's carousal, and then another, and another. If 
four or five arrived, the punchbowl was taken down, and 
emptied and filled again. But, whoever came, it was 
comparatively a dull evening, unless two especial Knights 
Companions were of the party; — one was a jolly old 
farmer, with much of the person and humor of Falstaff, 
a face as rosy as brandy could make it, and an eye 
teeming with subdued merriment ; for he had that prime 
quality of a joker, superficial gravity : — the other was 
a relative of the family, a wealthy yeoman, middle-aged, 
thin, and muscular. He was a bachelor, and famed for his 
indiscriminate attachment to all who bore the name of 
woman, — young or aged, clean or dirty, a lady or a 
gipsy, it mattered not to him ; all were equally admired. 
He had peopled the village green ; and it was remarked, 
that, whoever was the mother, the children might be 
recognised in an instant to belong to him. Such was 
the strength of his constitution, that, though he seldom 
went to bed sober, he retained a clear eye and stentorian 
voice to his eightieth year, and coursed when he was 
ninety. He sometimes rendered the colloquies over the 
bowl peculiaily piquant ; and so soon as his voice began 



ALDBOROUGH. — BECCLES. 139 

to be elevated, one or two of the inmates, my father and 
mother for example, withdrew with Mrs. Tovell into her 
own sanctum sanctorum ; but I, not being supposed 
capable of understanding much of what might be said, 
was allowed to linger on the skirts of the festive circle ; 
and the servants, being considered much in the same 
point of view as the animals dozing on the hearth, re- 
mained, to have the full benefit of their wit, neither pro- 
ducing the slightest restraint, nor feeling it themselves. 

After we had spent some weeks amidst this primitive 
set, we proceeded to Aid borough, where we were re- 
ceived with the most cordial welcome by my father's 
sister and her worthy husband, Mr. Sparkes. How well 
do I remember that morning ! — my father watching 
the effect of the first view of the sea on my countenance, 
the tempered joyfulness of his manner when he carried 
me in his arms to the verge of the rippling waves, and 
the nameless delight with which I first inhaled the odors 
of the beach. What variety of emotions had he not 
experienced on that spot ! — how unmingled would have 
been his happiness then, had his mother survived to see 
him as a husband and a father ! 

We visited also on this occasion my grandmother Mrs. 
Elmy, and her two daughters, at the delightful town of 
Beccles ; and never can I forget the admiration with 
which I even then viewed this gem of the Waveney, and 
the fine old church (Beata Ecclesia), which gives name 
to the place ; though, as there were no other children in 
the house, there were abundant attractions of another 
kind more suited to my years. In fact, Beccles seemed 
a paradise, as we visited froni house to house with our 
kind relations. From this town we proceeded to a sweet 



140 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

little villa called Normanston, another of the early resorts 
of my mother and her lover, in the days of their anxious 
affection. Here four or five spinsters of independent 
fortune had formed a sort of Protestant nunnery, the 
abbess being Miss Blacknell, who afterwards deserted it 
to become the wife of the late Admiral Sir Thomas 
Graves, a lady of distinguished elegance in her tastes 
and manners. Another of the sisterhood was Miss Wal- 
dron, late of Tamworth, — dear, good-humored, hearty, 
masculine Miss Waldron, who could sing a jovial song 
like a fox-hunter, and like him I had almost said toss a 
glass ; and yet was there such an air of high ton, and 
such intellect mingled with these manners, that the per- 
fect lady was not veiled for a moment, — no, not when, 
with a face rosy red, and an eye beaming with mirth, she 
would seize a cup and sing " Toby Fillpot," glorying 
as it were in her own jollity. When we took our morn- 
ing rides, she generally drove my father in her phaeton, 
and interested him exceedingly by her strong understand- 
ing and conversational powers. 

After morning prayers read by their clerical guest in 
the elegant boudoir, the carriages came to the door, and 
we went to some neighbouring town, or to the sea-side, 
or to a camp then formed at Ilopton, a few miles distant; 
more frequently to Lowestoff; where, one evening, all 
adjourned to a dissenting chapel, to hear the venerable 
John Wesley on one of the last of his peregrinations. 
He was exceedingly old and infirm, and was attended, 
almost supported in the pulpit, by a young minister on 
each side. The chapel was crowded to suffocation. In 
the course of the sermon, he repeated, though with an 
application of his own, the lines from Anacreon — 



MUSTON. 141 

" Oft am 1 by women told, 
Poor Anacreon ! thou growest old ; 
See, thine hairs are falling all, 
Poor Anacreon ! how they fall ! 
Whether I grow old or no, 
By these signs I do not know ; 
But this I need not to be told, 
'T is time to live if I grow old." 

My father was much struck by his reverend appearance 
and his cheerful air, and the beautiful cadence he gave 
to these lines ; and, after the service, introduced himself 
to the patriarch, who received him with benevolent po- 
liteness. 

Shortly after our return from Suffolk, the parsonage at 
Muston was visited by the late Mr. John Nichols, his 
son, (the present " Mr. Urban,") and an artist engaged 
in making drawings for the History of Leicestershire. 
Mr. Crabbe on this occasion rendered what service he 
could to a work for wliich he had previously, as I have 
stated, undertaken to write a chapter of natural history ; 
and was gratified, after his friend's return to London, by 
a present of some very fine Dutch engravings of plants, 
splendidly colored. 

In the spring of the next year (1792) my father 
preached a sermon at the visitation at Grantham, which 
so much struck the late Mr. Turner, rector of Denton 
and Wing, who had been commissioned to select a tutor 
for the sons of the Earl of Bute, that he came up after 
the service and solicited the preacher to receive these 
young noblemen into his family. But this he at once de- 
clined ; and he never acted more wisely than in so doing. 
Like the late Archbishop Moore, when tutor to the sons 
of the Duke of Marlborough, he might easily have " read 



142 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

a-head " of his pupils, and thus concealed or remedied 
the defects of his own education ; but the restraint of 
strange inmates would have been intolerable in my fa- 
ther's humble parsonage, and nothing could have repaid 
him for submitting to such an interruption of all his 
domestic habits and favorie pursuits. 

About this time he became intimately acquainted with 
the late Dr. Gordon, precentor of Lincoln, father to the 
present dean, and my mother and he passed some time 
with him at his residence near the cathedral. This was 
another of those manly, enlarged minds, for which he 
ever felt a strong partiality ; and on the same grounds 
he felt the same regard, many years afterwards, for his 
son. 

In October of this year Mr. Crabbe was enclosing a 
new garden for botanic specimens, and had just com- 
pleted the walls, when he was suddenly summoned into 
Suffolk to act as executor to Mr. Tovell, who had been 
carried off before there was time to announce his illness ; 
and on his return, after much deliberation (many motives 
contending against very intelligible scruples), my father 
determined to place a curate at Muston, and to go and 
reside at Parham, taking the charge of some church in 
that neighbourhood. 

Though tastes and affections, as well as worldly inter- 
ests, prompted this return to native scenes and early 
acquaintances, it was a step reluctantly taken, and, I 
believe, sincerely repented of. The beginning was omi- 
nous. As we were slowly quitting the place, preceded 
by our furniture, a stranger, though one who knew my 
father's circumstances, called out in an impressive tone, 



MUSTON. 143 

** You are wrong, you are wrong." The sound, he said, 
found an echo in his own conscience, and during the 
whole journey seemed to ring in bis ears like a super- 
natural voice. 



X44 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

CHAPTER VII. 
1792 — 1804. 

MR. CRABEE'S residence IN SUFFOLK, AT PARHAM, 

AT GLEMHAM, AND AT RENDHAM. 

In November, 1792, we arrived once more at Par- 
ham ; — but how changed was every thing since I had 
first visited that house, then the scene of constant mirth 
and hospitality ! As I got out of the chaise, I remem- 
ber jumping for very joy, and exclaiming, '* Here we are 
— here we are, little Willy * and all ! " but my spirits 
sunk into dismay when, on entering the well-known 
kitchen, all there seemed desolate, dreary, and silent. 
Mrs. Tovell and her sister-in-law, sitting by the fireside 
weeping, did not even rise up to welcome my parents, 
but uttered a few chilling words, and wept again. All 
this appeared to me as inexplicable as forbidding. How 
little do children dream of the alterations that elder 
people's feelings towards each other undergo, when 
death has caused a transfer of property ! Our arrival in 
Suffolk was by no means palatable to all my mother's 
relations. 

Mrs. Elmy and her sister. Miss Tovell, were their 
brother's co-heiresses: the latter was an ancient maiden, 
living in a cottage hard by, and persuaded that every 
thing ought to have been left to her own management. 
I think I see her now, with her ivory-tipped walking-cane, 
a foot, at least, above her head, scolding about some 

* My father's seventh and youngest child. 



PARHAM. 145 

change that would, as she said, have made '^ Jacky " 
(her late brother), if he had seen it, shake in his grave, 
— the said change being, perhaps, the removal of a 
print from one room to another, and my father having 
purchased every atom of the furniture when he came 
into the house. 

My father being at least as accessible to the slightest 
mark of kindness as to any species of offence, the cool 
old dame used to boast, not without reason, that she 
could " screw Crabbe up and down like a fiddle." Every 
now and then she screwed her violin a little too tightly ; 
but still there was never any real malice on either side. 
When, some time after, the hand of death was on Miss 
Tovell, she sent for Mr. Crabbe, and was attended by 
him with the greatest tenderness ; nor did she at last 
execute her oft-repeated threat of making a cadicy — 
Anglice, a codicil — to her will. 

In many circumstances, besides, my father found the 
disadvantage of succeedinor such a man as Mr. Tovell. 
He invited none of the old compotators, and if they 
came, received them but coolly ; and it was soon said 
that " Parham had passed away, and the glory thereof." 
When the paper of parish rates came round, he per- 
ceived that he was placed on a much higher scale of 
payment than his wealthy predecessor had ever been for 
the very same occupation ; and when he complained of 
this, he was told very plainly, — " Why, Sir, Mr. Tovell 
was a good neighbour : we all miss him sadly ; and so, 

I suppose do you, Sir ; and — and " " I understand 

you," said my father, " perfectly ; now, Sir, I refuse this 
rate : take your remedy." He resisted this charge ; and 
the consequences may be guessed, 
13 



14G LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Having detected the bailiff in some connection with 
smugglers, he charged him with the fact. The man 
flew into a violent passion, grasped a knife, and ex- 
claimed, with an inflamed countenance, '* No man shall 
call me a rogue ! " My father smiled at his rage, and 
said, in a quiet tone, — " Now, Robert, you are too 
much for me : put down your knife, and then we can talk 
on equal terms." The man hesitated : my father added, 
lifting his voice, " Get out of the house, you scoundrel ! " 
and he was obeyed. On all occasions, indeed, he ap- 
peared to have a perfect insensibility to physical danger. 

I have said that Mr. and Mrs. Crabbe were not in the 
habit of visiting. In fact, his father's station and strait- 
ened circumstances, and the customs of his native place, 
had prevented his forming any early habit of such in- 
tercourse. His own domestic and literary pursuits 
indisposed him still further ; and my mother's ill health 
combined to prevent any regular sociality with the fami- 
lies in their neighbourhood ; but both at Muston and 
Parham they had some valued friends occasionally re- 
siding with them for many weeks, especially an old lady 
of Aldborough, who had been intimate with my father's 
family, and was fallen into poverty, and who was ever 
received with cordiality and respect. But, at one house, 
in the vicinity of Parham, my father was a frequent 
visiter. To Mr. Dudley North he felt himself attached 
by the ties of gratitude, and strongly attracted both by 
the mutual knowledge of Mr. Burke, Mr. Fox, and other 
public characters, and by his own superior mind and 
manners ; for though, according to Mr. Boswell's ac- 
count of a conversation. Dr. Johnson mentions him 
somewhat lightly to Mrs. Thrale, yet it is to be remem- 



PARHAM. 147 

bered that that lady provoked him to it by her reiterated 
eulogium, and, moreover, that Mr. North was a Whig. 
But he was distinguished, even among the eminent 
characters of the day, for the high polish of his man- 
ners and the brilliancy of his wit. Though a silent 
member of the House (for he had a strong impediment 
in his utterance), '' yet," said Mr. Fox, " we owe to 
Dudley's suggestions some of the best hits we have 
made." 

From this friend, whose seat (Little Glemham Hall) 
was within two miles of Parham, my father received 
every kindness and attention. I remember a well-stored 
medicine chest arriving one morning — for Mr. Crabbe 
still continued to administer to the poor gratis — and 
game, fruit, and other produce of his domain were sent 
in profusion. It was in the autumn of 1794, or 1795, 
that he had the honor of meeting at Mr. North's, a 
large party of some of the most eminent men in the 
kingdom, — the Honorable Charles (now Earl) Grey, the 
Earl of Lauderdale, Mr. Fox, Mr. Roger Wilbraham, 
Dr. Parr, Mr. St. John, and several other public charac- 
ters. Mr. Fox, cordially recognising my father, ex- 
pressed his disappointment that his pen had been so long 
unemployed ; and it was then that he promised to revise 
any future poem which Mr. Crabbe might prepare for 
publication. One day, — for it was a shooting party, 
and they stayed about a fortnight, — in passing from the 
saloon to the dining-room, while there was a momentary 
pause, Mr. Fox playfully pushed my father first, saying, 
*' If he had had his deserts,* he would have walked 

* Alluding to his station at Belvoir. 



148 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

before us all." If this was an unmerited compliment, 
it was assuredly, a very good-humored one. 

Annoyances out of doors and within probably induced 
him, shortly after his arrival in Suffolk, to pay a visit of 
several months to his sister at Aldborough ; and when 
there, he had the great satisfaction of placing my brother 
John and myself under the tuition of one of the good old 
dames who had taught himself his letters. On returning 
to Parham, he undertook the charge of Sweffling, for the 
respected incumbent of that parish, the Reverend Rich- 
ard Turner of Great Yarmouth. Another curacy (Great 
Glemham) was shortly added to this ; and, thenceforth, 
his occupations and habits were very much what they 
had used to be at Muston. 

He had been about four years at Parham before another 
residence, quite suitable to his views, presented itself; 
and the opportunity of changing occurred at a moment 
when it was more than ever to be desired. In March, 
1796, Mr. Crabbe lost his third son, a fine promising lad, 
then in his sixth year. His family had been seven, and 
they were now reduced to two. The loss of this child 
was so severely felt by my mother, that it caused a nerv- 
ous disorder, from which she never entirely recovered ; 
and it became my father's very earnest wish to quit 
Parham, where the thoughts of that loss were unavoida- 
bly cherished. Great Glemham Hall, a house belonging 
to Mr. North, becoming vacant at that time, he very 
obligingly invited my father to be his tenant, at a greatly 
reduced rent ; and, on the 17th of October, the lares 
were removed from Parham, where they had been always 
unpropitious, to this beautiful residence, where my pa- 
rents remained for four or five years, to their entire satis- 



GLEMHAM. 149 

faction. The situation was delightful in itself, and 
extremely convenient for the clerical duties my father 
had to perform. I was now placed at school at Ipswich, 
under the care of the late excellent Mr. King, in whom 
my father had the most perfect confidence ; but I passed, 
of course, my vacations at home ; and never can I cease 
to look back to my days at Glemham as the golden spot 
of my existence. 

In June, 1798, on Mr. King's retiring from the school 
at Ipswich, I returned home in earnest ; for it was soon 
resolved that I should not be sent to any other master, 
but that my brother and myself should prepare for the 
University under our father's own care. If I except 
occasional visits of a month or two to Muston, the associ- 
ations of our happiest years are all with Glemham and 
other scenes in his native county. Glemham itself is, 
and ever will be, the Alhambra of my imagination. 
That glorious palace yet exists ; ours is levelled with the 
ground.* A small, well-wooded park occupied the whole 
mouth of the glen, whence, doubtless, the name of the 
village was derived. In the lowest ground stood the 
commodious mansion ; the approach wound down through 
a plantation on the eminence in front. The opposite 
hill rose at the back of it, rich and varied with trees and 
shrubs scattered irregularly ; under this southern hill ran 
a brook, and on the banks above it were spots of great 
natural beauty, crowned by whitethorn and oak. Here 
the purple-scented violet perfumed the air, and in one 
place colored the ground. On the left of the front, in the 

* A new and elegant mansion has been built on the hill, by 
Dr. Kilderbeck, who bought the estate. 

13* 



150 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

narrower portion of the glen, was the village ; on the right, 
a confined view of richly wooded fields. In fact the 
whole parish and neighbourhood resemble a combination 
of groves, interspersed with fields cultivated like gardens, 
and intersected with those green dry lanes which tempt 
the walker in all weathers, especially in the evenings, 
when in the short grass of the dry sandy banks lies every 
few yards a glowworm, and the nightingales are pouring 
forth their melody in every direction. 

My father was a skilfid mathematician ; and, imper- 
fectly as he had been grounded in the classics at school, 
he had, as I have stated, been induced, by various mo- 
tives, to become a very respectable scholar ; and not the 
least of these motives was his strong partiality for Latin 
poetry, which continued to the last, — his library table, 
and even his bed-room, being seldom without some favor- 
ite work of this description. But, there may be great 
defects in a domestic education, without any want of 
knowledge in the master. Seldom is such tuition carried 
on with strict regularity and perseverance, for family 
interruptions unavoidably occur daily ; and such an in- 
dulgent mind as his, conscious, too, of its own hatred to 
restraint, was not likely to enforce the necessary disci' 
pline. So that, to my infinite satisfaction, this new 
academy had much more of vacation than term-time : 
contrasted with Ipswich, it seemed little else than one 
glorious holiday. 

The summer evenings especially, at this place, dwell 
on my memory like a delightful dream. When we had 
finished our lessons, if we did not adjourn with my father 
to the garden to work in our own plats, we generally 
took a family walk through the green lanes around 



GLEMHAM. X51 

Glemham ; where, at every turn, stands a cottage or a 
farm, and not collected into a street, as in some parts of 
the kingdom, leaving the land naked and forlorn. Along 
these we wandered sometimes till the moon had risen, — 
my mother leading a favorite little niece who lived with 
us, my father reading some novel aloud, while my brother 
and I caught moths or other insects to add to his collec- 
tion. Since I have mentioned novels, I may say that 
even from the most trite of these fictions, he could some- 
limes catch a train of ideas that was turned to an excel- 
lent use ; so that he seldom passed a day without reading 
part of some such work, and was never very select in the 
choice of them. To us they were all, in those days, 
interesting, for they suggested some pleasing imaginings, 
the idea of some pretty little innocent-looking village 
heroine, perhaps, whom we had seen at church, or in a 
ramble ; and while he read Mrs. Inchbald's deeply 
pathetic story, called " Nature and Art," one evening, I 
believe some such association almost broke our hearts. 
When it was too dark to see, he would take a battledore 
and join us in the pursuit of the moths, or carry his little 
favorite if she were tired, and so we proceeded home- 
ward, while on the right and left, before and behind, the 
nightingales (I never heard so many as among those 
woods) were pouring out their melody, sometimes three 
or four at once. And now we fill the margin of our 
hats with glowworms to place upon the lawn before 
our windows, and reach the house only in time for sup- 
per. 

In the winter evenings the reading was carried on 
more systematically, and we had generally books of a 
superior description ; for a friend lent us every Christmas 



1^2 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

a large box of the most reputable works recently pub- 
lished, especially of travels ; and never can I forget the 
deep interest with which we heard my father read Sted- 
man's Surinam, Park's Africa, Macartney's China, and 
several similar publications of that period. He read in 
that natural and easy manner, that permits the whole 
attention to be given to the subject. Some (I think 
miscalled " good readers " ) are so wonderfully correct 
and emphatic, that we are obliged to think of the read- 
ing, instead of the story. In repeating any thing of a 
pathetic nature, I never heard his equal ; nay, there 
was a nameless something about his intonation, which 
could sometimes make even a ludicrous stanza affecting. 
We had been staying a week at a friend's house (a very 
unusual circumstance), and among his large and fine 
family was one daughter so eminently beautiful and 
graceful as to excite general admiration ; and the writer 
(now fifteen) very naturally fancied himself deeply in 
love with her. On returning home, my heart was too 
full to trust myself near the chaise, so I rode far behind, 
calling the setting sun and the golden tints of the west 
to witness my most solemn determination to raise myself 
to a rank worthy of this young enchantress. We stopped 
at an inn to rest the horses, and my father began to read 
aloud the well-known mock heroic from the " Anti- 
jacobin," — 

" Barbs ! barbs ! alas ! how swift ye flew 
Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! 
Ye bore Matilda from my view. 
Forlorn I languished at the U- 
niversity of Gottingen, 
niversity of Gottingen." 



GLEMHAM. I53 

In itself the song is an exquisite burlesque ; but the 
cadence he gave it was entirely irresistible, and at the 
words, " Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen," I could sup- 
press the accumulated grief no longer. " O ho ! " said 
he, " I see how the case is now ! " and he shut the book, 
and soothed me with inexpressible kindness. 

My father, now about his forty-sixth year, was much 
more stout and healthy than when I first remember him. 
Soon after that early period, he became subject to ver- 
tigoes, which he thought indicative of a tendency to 
apoplexy ; and was occasionally bled rather profusely, 
which only increased the symptoms. When he preached 
his first sermon at Muston, in the year 1789, my mother 
foreboded, as she afterwards told us, that he would 
preach very few more : but it was on one of his early 
journeys into Suftblk, in passing through Ipswich, that 
}ie had the most alarming attack. Having left my mother 
at the inn, he walked into the town alone, and suddenly 
staggered in the street, and fell. He was lifted up by the 
passengers, and overheard some one say, significantly, 
" Let the gentleman alone, he will be better by and by; " 
for his fall was attributed to the bottle. He was assisted 
to his room, and the late Dr. Club was sent for, who, 
after a little examination, saw through the case with 
great judgment. " There is nothing the matter with 
your head," he observed, '' nor any apoplectic tendency ; 
let the digestive organs bear the whole blame : you must 
take opiates." From that time his health began to 
amend rapidly, and his constitution was renovated ; a 
rare effect of opium, for that drug almost always inflicts 
some partial injury, even when it is necessary : but to 
him it was only salutary — and to a constant but slightly 



154 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

increasing dose of it may be attributed his long and 
generally healthy life. His personal appearance also 
was improved with his health and his years. This is 
by no means an uncommon case : many an ordinary 
youth has widened and rounded into a well-looking, 
dignified, middle-aged man. His countenance was never 
ordinary, but health of itself gives a new charm to any 
features ; and his figure, which in his early years had 
been rather thin and weakly, was now muscular and 
almost athletic. 

During the whole time my father officiated in Suffolk, 
he was a popular preacher, and had always large con- 
gregations ; for, notwithstanding what I have observed 
on this subject, and that he adopted not what are called 
evangelical principles, yet was he deemed a gospel 
preacher : but this term, as it was applied then and 
there, fell short of the meaning it now conveys. It sig- 
nified simply a minister who urges his flock to virtuous 
conduct, by placing a future award ever full in their 
view, instead of dwelling on the temporal motives ren- 
dered so prominent at that time by many of his breth- 
ren. 

His style of reading in the desk was easy and natural 
— at any rate, natural to him, though a fastidious ear 
might find in it a species of affectation, something a 
little like assumed authority ; but there was no tone, 
nothing of sing-song. He read too rapidly, it is true : 
but surely this was an error on the right side. The 
extremely slow enunciation of matter so very familiar, is 
enough to make piety itself impatient. In the pulpit he 
was entirely unaffected — read his sermon with earnest- 
ness, and in a voice and manner, on some occasions, 



GLEMHAM. I55 

peculiarly affecting ; but he made no attempt at extem- 
pore preaching, and utterly disregarded all the mechanism 
of oratory. And he had at that time another trait, very 
desirable in a minister, — the most complete exemption 
from fear or solicitude. " I must have some money, 
gentlemen," he would say, in stepping from the pulpit. 
This was his notice of tithe-day. Once or twice, finding 
it grow dark, he abruptly shut his sermon, saying, " Upon 
my word I cannot see ; I must give you the rest when 
we meet again." Or, he would walk into a pew near a 
window, and stand on the seat and finish his sermon, 
with the most admirable indifference to the remarks of 
his congregation. He was always, like his own Author- 
Rector, in the Parish Register, ' ' careless of hood and 
band," &c. 

I have mentioned that my mother was attacked, on 
the death of her son William, by a nervous disorder ; 
and it proved of an increasing and very lamentable 
kind ; for, during the hotter months of almost every year, 
she was oppressed by the deepest dejection of spirits I 
ever witnessed in any one, and this circumstance alone 
was sufficient to undermine the happiness of so feeling 
a mind as my father's. Fortunately for both, there were 
long intervals, in which, if her spirits were a little too 
high, the relief to herself and others was great indeed. 
Then she would sing over her old tunes again — and be 
the frank, cordial, charming woman of earlier days. 

This severe domestic affliction, however, did not seri- 
ously interrupt my father's pursuits and studies, although 
I think it probable that it was one of the main causes 
of that long abstinence from society, which has already 
been alluded to as one of the most remarkable features 



156 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

ill his personal history. He continued at Glemham, as 
he had done at Parham and Muston, the practice of 
literary composition. My brother says, in a memorandum 
now before me, " While searching for and examining 
plants or insects, he was moulding verses into measure 
and smoothness. No one who observed him at these 
times could doubt that he enjoyed exquisite pleasure in 
composing. He had a degree of action while thus walk- 
ing and versifying, which I hardly ever observed when 
he was preaching or reading. The ^ hand was moved up 
and down ; the pace quickened. He was, nevertheless, 
fond of considering poetical composition as a species 
of task and labor, and would say, ' I have been hard 
at work, and have had a good morning.' " 

My father taught himself both French and Italian, so 
as to read and enjoy the best authors in either language, 
though he knew nothing of their pronunciation. He 
also continued all through his residence in Suffolk the 
botanical and entomological studies to which he had 
been so early devoted. I rather think, indeed, that this 
was, of his whole life, the period during which he car- 
ried the greatest and most indefatigable zeal into his 
researches in Natural History. There was, perhaps, no 
one of its departments to which he did not, at some time 
or other, turn with peculiar ardor ; but, generally speak- 
ing, I should be inclined to say, that those usually con- 
sidered as the least inviting had the highest attractions 
for him. In botany, grasses, the most useful, but the 
least ornamental, were his favorites ; in minerals, the 
earths and sands; in entomology, the minuter insects- 
His devotion to these pursuits appeared to proceed purely 
from the love of science and the increase of knowledge 



GLEMHAM. I57 

— at all events, he never seemed to be captivated with 
the mere beauty of natural objects, or even to catch any 
taste for the arrangement of his own specimens. Within 
the house was a kind of scientific confusion ; in the 
garden, the usual showy foreigners gave place to the most 
scarce flowers, and especially to the rarer weeds, of Brit- 
ain ; and these were scattered here and there only' for 
preservation. In fact, he neither loved order for its own 
sake, nor had any very high opinion of that passion in 
others ; witness his words, in the tale of Stephen Jones, 
the " Learned Boy," — 

" The love of order — I the thing receive 
From reverend men — and I in part believe — 
Shows a clear mind and clean, and whoso needs 
This love, but seldom in the world succeeds. 
Still has the love of order found a place 
With all that 's low, degrading, mean, and base ; 
With all that merits scorn, and all that meets disgrace. 
In the cold miser of all change afraid, 
In pompous men in public seats obeyed. 
In humble placemen, heralds, solemn drones, 
Fanciers of flowers, and lads like Stephen Jones ; 
Order to these is armor and defence, 
And love of method serves for lack of sense." 

Whatever truth there may be in these lines, it is 
certain that this insensibility to the beauty of order was 
a defect in his own mind ; arising from what I must call 
his want of taste. There are, no doubt, very beautiful 
detached passages in his writings, — passages apparently 
full of this very quality. It is not, however, in detached 
parts of a poem that the criterion of this principle prop- 
erly lies, but in the conduct of the whole ; in the selec- 
tion of the subject and its amplifications ; in the relative 
14 



158 LIFE OF CRABBE. - 

disposition and comparative prominency of the parts, 
and in the contrasts afforded by bearing lightly or heavily 
on the pencil. In these things Mr. Crabbe is generally 
admitted to be not a little deficient ; and what can de- 
monstrate the high rank of his other qualifications better 
than the fact, that he could acquire such a reputation in 
spite of so serious a disadvantage ? This view of his 
mind, I must add, is confirmed by his remarkable indif- 
ference to almost all the proper objects of taste. He had 
no real love for painting, or music, or architecture, or 
for what a painter's eye considers as the beauties of 
landscape. But he had a passion for science — the sci- 
ence of the human mind, first ; — then, that of nature 
in general ; and, lastly, that of abstract quantities. His 
powerful intellect did not seem to require the ideas of 
sense to move it to enjoyment, but he could at all times 
find luxury in the most dry and forbidding calculations. 

One of his chief labors at this period was the com- 
pletion of the English Treatise on Botany, which I 
mentioned at an earlier page of this narrative, and the 
destruction of which I still think of with some regret. 
He had even gone so far as to propose its publication to 
Mr. Dodsley, before the scruples of another interfered, 
and made him put the manuscript into the fire. But 
among other prose writings of the same period some were 
of a class which, perhaps, few have ever suspected Mr. 
Crabbe of meddling with, though it be one in which so 
many of his poetical contemporaries have earned high 
distinction. During one or two of his winters in Suffolk, 
he gave most of his evening hours to the writing of 
Novels, and he brought not less than three such works 
to a conclusion. The first was entitled '* The Widow 



GLEMHAM. I59 

Grey ; " but I recollect nothing of it except that the 
principal character was a benevolent humorist, a Dr. 
Allison. The next was called " Reginald Glanshaw, or 
the Man who commanded Success ; " a portrait of an 
assuming, overbearing, ambitious mind, rendered inter- 
esting by some generous virtues, and gradually wearing 
down into idiotism. I cannot help thinking that this 
Glanshaw was drawn with very extraordinary power ; but 
the story was not well managed in the details. I forget 
the title of his third novel ; but I clearly remember that 
it opened with a description of a wretched room, similar 
to some that are presented in his poetry, and that, on my 
mother's telling him frankly that she thought the effect 
very inferior to that of the corresponding pieces in verse, 
he paused in his reading, and, after some reflection, said, 
*' Your remark is just." The result was a leisurely ex- 
amination of all these manuscript novels, and another of 
those grand incremations which, at an earlier period, 
had been sport to his children. The prefaces and dedi- 
cations to his poems have been commended for simple 
elegance of language ; nor was it in point of diction, I 
believe, that his novels would have been found defective, 
but rather in that want of skill and taste for order and 
arrangement, which I have before noticed as displayed 
even in his physiological pursuits. 

He had now accumulated so many poetical pieces of 
various descriptions, that he began to think of appearing 
once more in the capacity which had first made him 
known to fame. In the course of the year 1799, he 
opened a communication with Mr. Hatchard, the well- 
known bookseller, and was encouraged to prepare for 
publication a series of poems, sufficient to fill a volume 



X60 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

— among others, one on the Scripture story of Naaman : 
another, strange contrast ! entitled ** Gipsy Will ; " and 
a third founded on the legend of the Pedlar of Svvaffham. 
But before finally committing his reputation to the haz- 
ards of a new appearance, he judiciously paused to con- 
sult the well-known taste of the Reverend Richard 
Turner, already mentioned as rector of Sweffling. This 
friendly critic advised further revision, and his own ma- 
ture opinion coinciding with that thus modestly hinted, 
he finally rejected the tales I have named altogether ; 
deferred for a further period of eight years his reappear- 
ance as a poetical author ; and meantime began " The 
Parish Register," and gradually finished it and the 
smaller pieces, which issued with it from the press in 
1807. 

Since I have been led to mention Mr. Turner in this 
manner, let me be pardoned for adding, that one of the 
chief sources of comfort all through my father's residence 
in Suffolk was his connection with this honored man. 
He considered his judgment a sure safeguard and reli- 
ance in all cases practical and literary. The peculiar 
characteristic of his vigorous mind being an interest, not 
a seeming, but, a real interest, in every object of nature 
and art, he had stored it with multifarious knowledge, 
and had the faculty of imparting some portion of the in- 
terest he felt on all subjects, by the zeal and relish with 
which he discussed them. With my father he would 
converse on natural history, as if this had been his whole 
study ; with my mother, on mechanical contrivances and 
new inventions, for use or ornament, as if that were an 
exclusive taste ; while he would amuse us young folks 
with well-told anecdotes, and to walk or ride with him 



GLEMHAM. 161 

was considered our happiest privilege. Mr. Turner is 
too extensively and honorably known to need any such 
eulogy as I can offer ; but my father's most intimate 
friend and chosen critic will forgive the effusion of my 
gratitude and respect. While at Glemham, as at Par- 
ham, my father rarely visited any neighbours except 
Mr. North and his brother Mr. Long ; nor did he often 
receive any visiters. But one week in every year was 
to him, and to all his household, a period of peculiar 
enjoyment, — that during which he had Mr. Turner for 
his guest. 

About this time, the bishops began very properly to 
urge all non-resident incumbents to return to their 
livings; and Mr. Dudley North, willing to retain my 
father in his neighbourhood, took the trouble to call 
upon the Bishop of Lincoln, Dr. Prettyman, and to 
request that Mr. Crabbe might remain in Suffolk ; add- 
ing as an argument in favor of the solicited indulgence, 
his kindness and attention to his present parishioners. 
But his Lordship would not yield — observing, that they 
of Muston and Allington had a prior claim. " Now," 
said Mr. North, when he reported his failure, *' we must 
try and procure you an incumbency here ; " and one 
in his own gift becoming vacant, he very obligingly 
offered it to my father. This living * was, however, too 
small to be held singly, and he prepared ultimately 
(having obtained an additional furlough of four years) 
to return to his own parishes. His strong partiality to 
Suffolk was not the only motive for desiring to remain in 
that county, and near to all our relatives on both sides ; 

* The two Glemhams, both in the gift of Mrs. North, were 
lately presented to my brother John, who is now the incumbent. 

14* 



162 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

he would have sacrificed mere personal inclination with- 
out hesitation ; but he was looking to the interests of his 
children. 

In the autumn of 1801, Mr. North and his brother, 
having a joint property in the Glemham estate, agreed 
to divide by selling it ; and in October we left this sweet 
place, and entered a house at Rendham, a neighbouring 
village, for the four years we were to remain in the East 
Angles. 

In July, 1802, my father paid his last visit to Muston, 
previous to his final return. We passed through Cam- 
bridge in the week of the commencement ; and he was 
introduced by the Vice-Master of Trinity to the present 
Duke of Rutland, whom he had not seen since he was 
a child, and to several other public characters. I then 
saw from the gallery of the Senate House the academi- 
cal ceremonies in all their imposing effect, and viewed 
them with the more interest, because I was soon after to 
be admitted to Trinity. The area below was entirely 
filled. The late Duchess of Rutland attracted much 
admiration. There were the Bishops of Lincoln, and 
Bath, and Wells, and many others of high rank ; but, 
conspicuous above all, the commanding height and noble 
bust, and intellectual and dignified countenance of Mr. 
Pitt. I fancied — perhaps, it was only partiality — that 
there was, in that assembly, another high forehead very 
like his. 

My father haunted the Botanic Garden whenever he 
was at Cambridge, and he had a strong partiality for the 
late worthy curator, Mr. James Donn. " Donn is — 
Donn is," said he one day, seeking an appropriate epi- 
thet, — "a man," said my mother, — and it was agreed 



CAMBRIDGE. ' lg3 

that it was the very word. And, should any reader of 
these pages remember that independent, unassuming, 
but uncompromising character, he will assent to the 
distinction. He had no little-minded suspicions, or nar- 
row self-interest. He read my father's character at 
once, — felt assured of his honor, and when he rang at 
the gate for admission to pass the morning in selecting 
such duplicates of plants as could be well spared from 
the garden, Donn would receive us with a grave, benevo- 
lent smile, which said, " Dear Sir, you are freely wel- 
come to wander where, and to select what, you will, — 
I am sure you will do us no injury." 

On our return through Cambridge, I was examined, 
and entered ; and in October, 1803, went to reside. 
When I left college for the Christmas vacation, I found 
my father and mother stationed at Aldborough for the 
winter, and was told of a very singular circumstance 
which had occurred while I was absent. My father had 
received a letter from a stranger, signing his name " Al- 
dersey" (dated from Ludlow), stating that, having read 
his publications, he felt a strong inclination to have the 
pleasure of his society - — that he possessed property 
enough for both, and requested him to relinquish any 
engagements he might have of a professional nature, and 
reside with him. The most remarkable part of the 
matter was, the perfect coherency with which this strange 
offer was expressed. 

One day about this time, casually stepping into a 
bookseller's at Ipswich, my father first saw the " Lay of 
the Last Minstrel." A few words only riveted his atten- 
tion, and he read it nearly through while standing at 
the counter, observing, " a new and great poet has ap- 



164 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

peared ! " How often have I heard him repeat those 
striking lines near the commencement of that poem : — 

" The lady's gone into her secret cell, 
Jesu Maria ! shield us well ! " 

He was for several years, like many other readers, 
a cool admirer of the earlier and shorter poems of what 
is called the Lake School ; but, even when he smiled at 
the exceeding simplicity of the language, evidently found 
something in it peculiarly attractive ;- for there were few 
modern works which he opened so frequently — and he 
soon felt and acknowledged, with the public, that, in that 
simplicity was veiled genius of the greatest magnitude. 
Of Burns he was ever as enthusiastic an admirer as the 
warmest of his own countrymen. On his high appre- 
ciation of the more recent works of his distinguished 
contemporaries, it is needless to dwell.* 

* My brother says on this subject, — " He heartily assented to 
the maxim, that — allowing a fair time, longer in some cases than 
in others — a book would find its proper level ; and that a well- 
filled theatre would form a just opinion of a play or an actor. Yet 
he would not timidly wait the decision of the public, but give his 
opinion freely. Soon after Waverley appeared, he was in company 
where a gentleman of some literary weight was speaking of it in 
a disparaging tone. A lady defended the new novel, but with a 
timid reserve. Mr. Crabbe called out, ' Do not be frightened, 
Madam ; you are right : speak your opinion boldly.' Yet he did 
not altogether like Sir Walter's prinoipal male characters. He 
thought they wanted gentleness and ui-banity ; especially Quentin 
Durward, Halbert Glendinning, and Nigel. He said Colonel 
Mannering's age and peculiar situation excused his haughtiness ; 
but he disliked fierceness and glorying, and the trait he especially 
admired in Prince Henry, was his greatness of mind in yielding 
the credit of Hotspur's death to his old companion Falstaff. Henry, 
at Agincourt, ' covetous of honor,' was ordinary, he said, to this." 



SUFFOLK. 165 

I have not much more to say with respect to my 
father's second residence in Suffolk ; but T must not dis- 
miss this period — a considerable one in the sum of his 
life — without making some allusion to certain rumors 
which, long before it terminated, had reached his own 
parish of Muston, and disinclined the hearts of many of 
the country people there to receive him, when he again 
returned among them, with all the warmth of former 
days. When first it was reported among those villagers 
by a casual traveller from Suffolk, that Mr. Crabbe was a 
Jacobin, there were few to believe the story, — "it must 
be a loy, for the rector had always been a good kind 
gentleman, and much noticed by the Vukc ;" but by 
degrees the tale was more and more disseminated, and 
at length it gained a pretty general credence among 
a population, which, being purely agricultural, — and, 
therefore, connecting every notion of what was praise^ 
worthy with the maintenance of the war that, undoubt- 
edly, had raised agricultural prices to an unprecedented 
scale, — was affected in a manner extremely disagreeable 
to my father's feelings, and even worldly interests, by 
such an impression as thus originated. The truth is, 
that my father never was a politician, — that is to say, 
he never allowed political affairs to occupy much of his 
mind at any period of his life, or thought either better 
or worse of any individual for the bias he had received. 
But he did not, certainly, approve of the origin of the 
war that was raging while he lived at Parham, Glemham, 
and Rendham ; nor did he ever conceal his opinion, 
that this war might have been avoided, — and hence, in 
proportion to the weight of his local character, he gave 
offence to persons maintaining the diametrically oppo- 



165 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

site view of public matters at that peculiar crisis. As 
to the term Jacobin, I shall say only one word. None 
could have been less fitly applied to him at any period of 
his life. He was one of the innumerable good men who, 
indeed, hailed the beginning of the French Revolution, 
but who execrated its close. No syllable in approbation 
of Jacobins or Jacobinism ever came from his tongue or 
from his pen ; and as to the *' child and champion of 
Jacobinism," Napoleon had not long pursued his career 
of ambition, before my father was well convinced that to 
put liim down was the first duty of every nation that 
wished to be happy and free. 

With respect to the gradual change which his early 
sentiments on political subjects in general unquestion- 
ably underwent, I may as well, perhaps, say a word or 
two here ; for the topic is one I have no wish to recur 
to again. 

Perhaps the natural tendency of every young man, 
who is conscious of powers and capabilities above his 
station, is, to adopt what are called popular or liberal 
opinions. He peculiarly feels the disadvantages of his 
own class, and is tempted to look with jealousy on all 
those who, with less natural talent, enjoy superior privi- 
leges. But, if this young man should succeed in raising 
himself by his talents into a higher walk of society, it is 
perhaps equally natural that he should imbibe aristocratic 
sentiments : feeling the reward of his exertions to be 
valuable in proportion to the superiority of his acquired 
station, he becomes an advocate for the privileges of 
rank in general, reconciling his desertion of the exclu- 
sive interests of his former caste, by alleging the facility 
of his own rise. And if he should be assisted by pa- 



SUFFOLK. 



167 



tronage, and become acquainted with his patrons, the 
principle of gratitude, and the opportunity of witnessing 
the manners of the great, would contribute materially to 
this change in his feelings. Such is, probably, the 
natural tendency of such a rise in society ; and, in truth, 
I do not think Mr. Crabbe's case was an exception. 
The popular opinions of his father were, I think, ori- 
ginally embraced by him rather from the unconscious 
inflnence I have alluded to, than from the deliberate 
conviction of his judgment. But his was no ordinary 
mind, and he did not desert them merely from the vulgar 
motive of interest. At Belvoir he had more than once 
to drink a glass of salt water, because he would not 
join in Tory toasts. He preserved his early partialities 
through all this trying time of Tory patronage ; and of 
course he felt, on the whole, a greater political accord 
with the owner of Glemham and his distinguished guests. 
But when, in the later portion of his life, he became 
still more intimate with the highest ranks of society, and 
mingled with them, not as a young person whose fortune 
was not made, and who had therefore to assert his inde- 
pendence, but as one whom talent had placed above the 
suspicion of subserviency ; when he felt the full advan- 
tages of his rise, and became the rector of a lar^e town, 
and a magistrate, I think again, the aristocratic and Tory 
leanings he then showed were rather the effect of these 
circumstances, than of any alteration of judgment founded 
upon deliberate enquiry and reflection. But of this I am 
sure, that his own passions were never violently enlisted 
in any political cause whatever ; and that to purely party 
questions he was, first and last, almost indifferent. The 
dedication of his poems to persons of such opposite opin- 



158 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

ions arose entirely from motives of personal gratitude 
and attachment ; and he carried his impartiality so far, 
that I have heard him declare, he thought it very imma- 
terial who were our representatives in parliament, pro- 
vided they were men of integrity, liberal education, and 
possessed an adequate stake in the country. 

I shall not attempt to defend this apathy on a point of 
such consequence, but it accounts for circumstances 
which those who feel no such moderation might consider 
as aggravated instances of inconsistency. He not only 
felt an equal regard for persons of both parties, but would 
willingly have given his vote to either ; and at one or 
two general elections, I believe he actually did so ; — for 
example, to Mr. Benett, the Whig candidate for Wilt- 
shire, and to Lord Douro and Mr. Croker,* the Tory 
candidates at Aldborough. 

* I take the liberty of quoting what follows, from a letter with 
which I have lately been honored by the Right Honorable J. W. 
Croker: — " I have heard, from those who knew Mr. Crabbe earli- 
er than I had the pleasure of doing — (and his communications with 
me led to the same conclusion), that he never was a violent nor 
even a zealous politician. He was, as a conscientious clergyman 
might be expected to be, a church-and-king man ; but he seemed 
to me to think and care less about party politics than any man of his 
condition in life that I ever met. At one of my elections for Alde- 
burgh, he happened to be in the neighbourhood, and he did me the 
honor of attending in the Town Hall, and proposing me. This was, 
I suppose, the last act of his life which had any reference to politics 
— at least, to local politics ; for it was, I believe, his last visit to 
the place of his nativity. My opinion of his admirable works, I 
took the liberty of recording in a note on Bosw^ell's Johnson. To 
that opinion, on reconsideration and frequent re-perusals of his 
poems, I adhere with increased confidence ; and I hope you will 
not think me presumptuous for adding, that I was scarcely more 



SUFFOLK. 169 

He says, in a letter on this subject, " With respect to 
the parties themselves, Whig and Tory, I can but think, 
two dispassionate, sensible men, who have seen, read, and 
observed, will approximate in their sentiments more and 
more ; and if they confer together, and argue, — not to 
convince each other, but for pure information, and with 
a simple desire for the truth, — the ultimate difference will 
be small indeed. The Tory, for instance, would allow 
that, but for the Revolution in this country, and the 
noble stand against the arbitrary steps of the house of 
Stuart, the kingdom would have been in danger of 
becominor what France once was ; and the Whior must 
also grant, that there is at least an equal danger in an 
unsettled, undefined democracy ; the ever-changing laws 
of a popular government. Every state is at times on the 
inclination to change ; either the monarchical or the 



struck by his genius, than by the amiable simplicity of his manners, 
and the dignified modesty of his mind. With talents of a much 
higher order, he realized all that we read of the personal amiability 
of Gay." 

The note on Boswell, to which Mr. Croker here refers, is in these 
terms: — "The writings of this amiable gentleman have placed 
him high on the roll of British poets ; though his having taken a 
view of life too minute, too humiliating, too painful, and too just, 
may have deprived his works of so extensive, or, at least ?o brilliant, 
a popularity as some of his contemporaries have attained ; but I 
venture to believe, that there is no poet of his times who will stand 
higher in the opinion of posterity. He generally deals with ' the 
short and simple annals of the poor ; ' but he exhibits them with 
such a deep knowledge of human nature, with such general ease 
and simplicity, and such accurate force of expression — whether 
gay or pathetical, as, in my humble judgment, no poet, except 
Shakspeare, has excelled." 

15 



170 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

popular interest will predominate ; and in the former 
case, I conceive, the well-meaning Tory will incline to 
Whiggism, — in the latter, the honest Whig will take 
the part of declining monarchy." I quote this as a proof 
of the political moderation I have ascribed to him ; and 
I may appeal with safety, on the same head, to the whole 
tenor, not only of his published works, but of his private 
conversations and pastoral discourses. 

We happened to be on a visit at Aldborough, when 
the dread of a French invasion was at its height. The 
old artillery of the fort had been replaced by cannon of a 
larger calibre ; and one, the most weighty I remember 
to have seen, was constantly primed, as an alarm gun. 
About one o'clock one dark morning, I heard a distant 
gun at sea ; in about ten minutes another, and at an 
equal interval a third : and then at last, the tremendous 
roar of the great gun on the fort, which shook every 
house in the town. After enquiring into the state of 
affairs, I went to my father's room, and, knocking at the 
door, with difficulty waked the inmates, and said, " Do 
not be alarmed, but the French are landing." I then 
mentioned that the alarm gun had been fired, that horse- 
men had been despatched for the troops at Ipswich, and 
that the drum on the quay was then beating to arms. 
He replied, " Well, my old fellow, you and I can do no 
good, or we would be among them ; we must wait the 
event." I returned to his door in about three quarters 
of an hour, to tell him that the agitation was subsiding, 
and found him fast asleep. Whether the affair was a 
mere blunder, or there had been a concerted manoeuvre 
to try the fencibles, we never could learn with certainty ; 
but I remember that my father's coolness on the occa- 



MUSTON. 171 

sion, when we mentioned it next day, caused some sus- 
picious shakings of the head among the ultra-loyalists of 
Aldborough. 

But the time was now at hand that we were all to 
return finally to Leicestershire ; and when, in the year 
1805, we at length bade adieu to Suffolk, and travelled 
once more to Muston, my father had the full expectation 
that his changes of residence were at an end, and that 
he would finish his days in his own old parsonage. I 
must indulge myself, in closing this chapter with part of 
the letter, which he received, when on the eve of start- 
ing for Leicestershire, from the honored rector of SwefF- 
ling : — 

^' It would be very little to my credit, if I could closCj 
without much concern, a connection which has lasted nearly 
twelve years, — no inconsiderable part of human life, — and 
never was attended with a cross word or a cross thought. 
My parish has been attended to with exemplary care ; I 
have experienced the greatest friendship and hospitality from 
you and Mrs. Crabbe ; and I have never visited or left you 
without bringing away with me the means of improvement. 
And all this must return no more ! Such are the awful 
conditions upon which the comforts of this life must be held. 
Accept, my dear Sir, my best thanks for your whole con- 
duct towards me, during the whole time of our connection, 
and my best wishes for a great increase of happiness to you 
and Mrs. Crabbe, in your removal to the performance of 
more immediate duties. Your own parishioners will, I am 
persuaded, be as much gratified by your residence amongst 
them, as mine have been by your residence in Suffolk. Our 
personal intercourse must be somewhat diminished ; yet, I 
hope, opportunities of seeing each other will arise, and if 



172 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

subjects of correspondence be less frequent, the knowledge 
of each other's and our families' welfare will always be 
acceptable information. Adieu, my dear Sir, for the present. 
Your much obliged and faithful friend, 

" R. TURMER." 



MUSTON. 173 

CHAPTER VIII. 
1805 — 1814. 

MR. CRABBE'S second RESIDENCE AT MUSTON. PUBLI- 
CATION OF "the PARISH REGISTER." LETTERS FROM 

EMINENT INDIVIDUALS. VISIT TO CAMBRIDGE. AP- 
PEARANCE OF "the BOROUGH," AND OF THE "TALES 

IN VERSE." LETTERS TO AND FROM SIR WALTER 

SCOTT AND OTHERS. A MONTH IN LONDON. THE 

PRINCE REGENT AT EELVOIR. DEATH OF MRS. CRABBE. 

MR. CRABBE'S REMOVAL FROM LEICESTERSHIRE.— 

LINES WRITTEN AT GLEMHAM AFTER MY MOTHER'S 
DECEASE. 

When, in October, 1805, Mr. Crabbe resumed the 
charge of his own parish of Muston, he found some 
changes to vex him, and not the less, because he had 
too much reason to suspect that his long absence from 
his incumbency had been, partly at least, the cause of 
them. His cure had been served by respectable and 
diligent clergymen, but they had been often changed, 
and some of them had never resided within the parish ; 
and he felt that the binding influence of a settled and 
permanent minister had not been withdrawn for twelve 
years with impunity. A Wesleyan missionary had 
formed a thriving establishment in Muston, and the 
congregations at the parish church were no longer such 
as they had been of old. This much annoyed my 
father ; and the warmth with which he began to preach 
against dissent only irritated himself and others, with-' 
out bringing back disciples to the fold, 
15* 



174 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

But the progress of the Wesleyans, of all sects the 
least unfriendly in feeling, as well as the least dissimilar 
in tenets, to the established church, was, after all, a 
slight vexation compared to what he underwent from 
witnessing the much more limited success of a disciple 
of Huntington in spreading in the same neighbourhood 
the pernicious fanaticism of his half-crazy master. The 
social and moral effects of that new mission were well 
calculated to excite not only regret, but indignation ; 
and, among other distressing incidents, was the de- 
parture from his own household of two servants, a 
woman and a man, one of whom had been employed by 
him for twenty years. The man, a conceited plough- 
man, set up for a Huntingtonian preacher himself; and 
the woman, whose moral character had been sadly deteri- 
orated since her adoption of the new lights, was at last 
obliged to be dismissed, in consequence of intolerable 
insolence. I mention these things, because they may 
throw light on some passages in my father's later poetry. 

By the latter part of the year 1806, Mr. Crabbe had 
nearly completed his " Parish Register," and the shorter 
poems that accompanied it, and had prepared to add 
them to a new edition of his early works ; and his 
desire to give his second son also the benefits of an aca- 
demical education was, I ought to add, a principal 
motive for no longer delaying his reappearance as a poet. 
He had been, as we have seen, promised, years before, 
in Suffolk, the high advantage of Mr. Fox's criticism ; 
but now, when the manuscript was ready, he was in 
office, and in declining health ; so that my father felt 
great reluctance to remind him of his promise. He 
wrote to the great statesman to say that he could not 



"THE PARISH REGISTER." 175 

hope, under such circumstances, to occupy any portion 
of his valuable time, but that it would afford much 
gratification if he might be permitted to dedicate the 
forthcoming volume to Mr. Fox. That warm and 
energetic spirit, however, was not subdued by all the 
pressure of his high functions added to that of an in- 
curable disease; and "he repeated an offer," says my 
father, in his preface, " which, though I had not pre- 
sumed to expect, I was happy to receive." The manu- 
script was immediately sent to him at St. Anne's Hill , 
" and," continues Mr. Crabbe, " as I have the informa- 
tion from Lord Holland, and his Lordship's permission 
to inform my readers, the poem which I have named 
' The Parish Register ' was heard by Mr. Fox, and it 
excited interest enough, by some of its parts, to gain 
for me the benefit of his judgment upon the whole. 
Whatever he approved the reader will readily believe I 
carefully retained ; the parts he disliked are totally ex- 
punged, and others are substituted, which, I hope, 
resemble those more conformable to the taste of so 
admirable a judge. Nor can I deny myself the melan- 
choly satisfaction of adding, that this poem (and more 
especially the story of Phcebe Dawson, with some parts 
of the second book), were the last compositions of their 
kind that engaged and amused the capacious, the candid, 
the benevolent mind of this great man." In the same 
preface my father acknowledges his obligations to Mr. 
Turner. " He, indeed," says Mr. Crabbe, *' is the 
kind of critic for whom every poet should devoutly wish, 
and the friend whom every man would be happy to ac- 
quire. To this gentleman I am indebted more than I 
am able to express, or than he is willing to allow, for the 
time he has bestowed upon the attempts I have made." 



176 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

This preface is dated Muston, September, 1807 ; and 
in the same month the volume was published by Mr. 
Hatchard. It contained, with the earlier series. The 
Parish Register, Sir Eustace Grey, The Birth of Flat- 
tery, and other minor pieces ; and its success was not 
only decided, but nearly unprecedented. By " The 
Parish Register," indeed, my father must be considered 
as having first assumed that station among British poets, 
which the world has now settled to be peculiarly his 
own. The same character was afterwards still more 
strikingly exemplified and illustrated — but it was 
henceforth the same ; whereas there was but little in 
the earlier series that could have led to the expectation 
of such a performance as " The Register." In the 
former works, a few minute descriptions had been in- 
troduced — but here there was nothing but a succession 
of such descriptions ; in them there had been no tale 
— this was a chain of stories ; they were didactic — 
here no moral inference is directly inculcated : finally, 
they were regularly constructed poems — this boldly 
defies any but the very slightest and most transparently 
artificial connections. Thus differing from his former 
self, his utter dissimilarity to any other author then 
enjoying public favor was still more striking ; the man- 
ner of expression was as entirely his own as the singu- 
lar minuteness of his delineation, and the strictness of 
his adherence to the literal truth of nature ; and it was 
now universally admitted, that, with lesser peculiarities, 
he mingled the conscious strength, and, occasionally, the 
profound pathos, of a great original poet. 

Nor was " Sir Eustace Grey " less admired on other 
grounds, than " The Parish Register " was for the sin- 



"THE PARISH REGISTER." I77 

gular combination of excellences which I have been 
faintly alluding to, and which called forth the warmest 
eulogy of the most powerful critical authority of the 
time, which was moreover considered as the severest. 
The other periodical critics of the day agreed substan- 
tially with the Edinburgh Review ; and I believe that 
within two days after the appearance of Mr. Jeffrey's ad- 
mirable and generous article, Mr. Hatchard sold off the 
whole of the first edition of these poems. 

Abundantly satisfied with the decision of professional 
critics, he was further encouraged by the approbation of 
some old friends and many distinguished individuals to 
whom he had sent copies of his work ; and I must gratify 
myself by inserting a few of their letters to him on this 
occasion. 

Fi-om Mr. Bonnycastle. 

" Woolwich Common, Oct. 24, 1807. 
" Dear Sir, — Being from home when your kind letter, 
with a copy of your Poems, arrived, I had no opportunity 
of answering it sooner, as I should certainly otherwise have 
done. The pleasure of hearing from you, after a silence of 
more than twenty-eight years, made me Uttle solicitous to 
enquire how it has happened that two persons, who have 
always mutually esteemed each other^ should have no inter- 
course whatever for so long a period. It is sufficient that 
you are well and happy, and that you have not forgot your 
old friend ; who, you may be assured, has never ceased to 
cherish the same friendly remembrance of you. — You are 
as well known in my family as you are pleased to say I am 
in yours ; and whenever you may find it convenient to 
come to this part of the world, both you and yours may de- 
pend upon the most sincere and cordial reception. I have a 



178 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

daughter nearly twenty, a son upon the point of becoming 
an officer in the engineers, and tAVO younger boys, who at 
this moment are deeply engaged in your poems, and highly 
desirous of seeing the author, of whom they have so often 
heard me speak. They are, of course, no great critics ; but 
all beg me to say, that they are much pleased with your 
beautiful verses, which I have promised to read to them 
again when they have done ; having conceded to their 
eagerness the premices of the treat. It affords me the great- 
est gratification to find that, in this world of chances, you 
are so comfortably and honorably established in your profes- 
sion, and I sincerely hope your sons may be as well provi- 
ded for. I spent a few days at Cambridge a short time 
since, and had I known they had been there, I should not 
have failed making myself known to them, as an old friend 
of their father's. For myself, I have had Httle to complain 
of, except the anxiety and fatigue attending the duties of 
my calling ; but as I have lately succeeded to the place of 
Dr. Hutton, who has resigned the attendance at the acade- 
my, this has made it more easy, and my situation as re- 
spectable and pleasant as I could have any reason to expect. 
Life, as my friend Fuseli constantly repeats, is very short, 
therefore do not delay coming to see us any longer than 
you can possibly help. Be assured we shall all rejoice at 
the event. In the mean time, believe me, my dear Sir, your 
truly sincere friend, 

" J. BONNYCASTLE." 

From Mrs. Burke * 

" Beaconsfield, Nov. 30, 1807. 
(' SiRj — I am much ashamed to find that your very kind 
letter and very valuable present have remained so long un- 

* Of this lady, who died in 1812, Mr. Prior says: — " Added to 
affectionate admiration of Mr. Burke's talents, she possessed accom- 



"THE PARISH REGISTER." I79 

acknowledged. But the truth is, when I received them, I 

was far from well ; and procrastination being one of my 

natural vices, I have deferred returning you my most sincere 

thanks for your gratifying my feelings, by your beautiful 

preface and poems. I have a full sense of their value and 

your attention. Your friend never lost sight of worth and 

abilities. He found them in you, and was most happy in 

having it in his power to bring them forward. I beg you, 

Sir, to believe, and to be assured, that your situation in life 

was not indifferent to me, and that it rejoices me to know 

that you are happy. I beg my compliments to Mrs. Crabbe, 

and my thanks for her remembering that I have had the 

pleasure of seeing her. I am, Sir, with great respect and 

esteem, &c. 

" Jane Burke." 

From Dr. Mans el* 

" Trinity Lodge, Cambridge, Oct. 29, 1807. 
"Dear Sir, — I could not resist the pleasure of going 
completely through your delightful poems, before I returned 
you, as I now do, my best thanks for so truly valuable a proof 
of your remembrance. The testimony of my opinion is but 
of small importance, when set by the side of those which have 
already been given of this accession to our standard national 
poetry ; but I must be allowed to say, that so much have I 
been delighted with the perusal of the incomparable de- 
scriptions which you have laid before me ; with the easi- 
ness and purity of the diction, the knowledge of life and 
manners, and the vividness of that imagination which could 

plishments, good sense, goodness of heart, and a sweetness of 
manners and disposition, which served to allay many of the anxie- 
ties of his career. He repeatedly declared, that ' every care 
vanished the moment he entered under his own roof.' " — Life of 
Burke. 
* Afterwards Bishop of Bristol. His Lordship died in 1820. 



X80 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

produce, and so well sustain and keep up such charming 
scenes — that I have found it to be almost the only book of late 
times which I could read through without making it a sort 
of duty to do so. Once more, dear Sir, accept of my best 
thanks for this very flattering remembrance of me ; and be 
assured of my being, with much regard, your faithful, &c. 

" W. L. Mansel." 

From Earl Grey. 

" Hertford Street, Feb. 28, 1808. 
"Sir, — I have many excuses to offer for not having 
sooner returned my thanks for your letter of the 10th of 
October, and the valuable present which accompanied it. I 
did not receive it till I arrived in London, about the middle 
of the last month, and I waited till I should have had time 
— for which the first business of an opening session of par- 
liament was not favorable — to read a work from which I 
anticipated much pleasure. I am now able, at the same 
time, to offer you my best thanks in sending me the poems 
you have lately published, and to say that my admiration of 
the author of ' The Library,' has not been diminished by 
the perusal of ' The Parish Register,' and the other ad- 
ditional poems. But all other praise must appear insipid, 
after that of Mr. Fox ; and I will only add, that I think 
that highest praise, for such I esteem it, was justly due to 
you. I well remember the pleasure which I had in meeting 
you at Mr. Dudley North's, and wish I could look to a 
revival of it. I have the honor to be, with great regard, 
Sir, &c. 

« Grey." 

From Roger Wilhraham, Esq. 

" Stratton Street, May 23, 1808. 
"Dear Sir, — Unless I had heard from our friend, Mr. 
North, that you had received complimentary letters from 



"THE PARISH REGISTER." Igl 

most of your friends on your late publication, I should not 
have thought of adding- my name to the number. The 
only reason for my silence was the fear of assuming much 
more of a literary character than belongs to me ; though, 
on the score of friendship for the author, and admiration of 
his works, I will not yield to the most intelligent and saga- 
cious critic. Perhaps, indeed, an earlier letter from me 
might have been authorized by the various conversations 
we have had together at Glemham, in which I so frequently 
took the liberty to urge you not to rest contented with 
that sprig of bays which your former publications had justly 
acquired, but to aim at a larger branch of thicker foliage. 
This I can truly say, my dear Sir, you have obtained by 
universal consent ; and I feel considerable pride in having 
the honor to be known to a person who has afforded so 
much real delight to a discerning public. — No, no. Sir, 
when we thought you idle, you were by no means so ; j^ou 
were observing man, and studying his character among 
the inferior orders of the community ; and the varieties 
that belong to his character, you have now described with 
the most perfect truth, and in the most captivating language. 
When I took up your book, the novelties of it first at- 
tracted my notice, and afterwards I visited my old acquaint- 
ances with as much pleasure as ever. The only regret I 
felt at the end was, that the book was not marked Vol. I. ; 
but that may be amended. In which hope I take my leave, 
assuring ji-ou of the very sincere regard, and real admiration 
of, yours most truly and sincerely, 

" Roger Wilbraha^m." 

From Mr. Canning. 

" Stanhope Street, Nov. 13, 1807. 
"Sir, — I have deferred acknowledging the civility of 
your letter, until I should at the same time acknowledge 
the pleasure which I had derived from the perusal of the 
16 



]82 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

volume which accompanied it. I have lately made that 
volume the companion of a journey into the country. I am 
now therefore able to appreciate the value of your present, 
as well as to thank you for your obliging" attention in send- 
ing it to me. With some of the poems — ' The Village,' 
particularly — I had been long acquainted ; but I was glad to 
have them brought back to my recollection ; and I have read 
with no less pleasure and admiration those which I now 
saw for the first time. I have the honor to be, Sir, &c. &:c. 

" George Canning." 

From Lord Holland. 

" Sir, — Having been upon a tour in Scotland, I did 
not receive your book till my arrival at York, and was 
unwilling to answer your very obHging letter till I had read 
' The Parish Register ' in print. I can assure you that its 
appearance in this dress has increased my opinion of its 
beauty : and, as you have done me, very undeservedly, the 
honor of calling me a judge of such matters, I will venture 
to say, that it seems to me calculated to advance the reputa- 
tion of the author of ' The Library ' and ' The Village,' 
which, to any one acquainted with those two excellent 
poems, is saying a great deal. With regard to the very 
flattering things you are pleased to say of me, I am con- 
scious that your willingness to oblige has blinded your 
judgment ; but cannot conclude my letter without returning 
you thanks for such expressions of your partiality. I am. 

Sir, &c. 

" Holland." 

To these I may add a letter from Mr. Walter Scott, 
dated " Ashetiel, October 21st, 1809, " — acknowledg- 
ing the receipt of a subsequent edition of the same 
volume. 



"THE PARISH REGISTER." 183 

*' Dear Sir, — I am just honored with your letter, which 
gives me the more sensible pleasure, since it has gratified a 
wish of more than twenty years' standing. It is, I think, 
fully that time since I was, for great part of a very snowy 
winter, the inhabitant of an old house in the country, in a 
course of poetical study, so very like that of your admirably 
painted ' Young Lad,' that I could hardly help saying, 
' That 's me ! ' when I was reading the tale to my family. 
Among the very few books which fell under my hands was 
a volume or two of Dodsley's Annual Register, one of 
which contained copious extracts from ' The Village ' and 
' The Library,' particularly the conclusion of book first of 
the former, and an extract from the latter, beginning with 
the description of the old Romancers. I committed them 
most faithfully to my memory, where your verses must 
have felt themselves very strangely lodged in company with 
ghost stories, border-riding ballads, scraps of old plays, and 
all the miscellaneous stuflf which a strong appetite for read- 
ing, with neither means nor discrimination for selection, 
had assembled in the head of a lad of eighteen. New pub- 
lications, at that time, were very rare in Edinburgh, and 
my means of procuring them very limited ; so that, after a 
long search for the poems which contained these beautiful 
specimens, and which had afforded me so much delight, I 
was fain to rest contented with the extracts from the 
Register, wdiich I could repeat at this moment. You may, 
therefore, guess my sincere delight, when I saw your poems 
at a later period assume the rank in the pubhc considera- 
tion, which they so w^ell deserve. It was a triumph to my 
own immature taste to find I had anticipated the applause 
of the learned and of the critical, and I became very desirous 
to offer my gratulor, among the more important plaudits 
which you have had from every quarter. I should certainly 
have availed myself of the freemasonry of authorship — (for 
our trade may claim to be a mystery as well as Abhorson's) 



184 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

— to address to you a copy of a new poetical attempt, 
which I have now upon the anvil, and I esteem myself 
l)articularly obliged to Mr. Hatchard, and to your goodness 
acting upon his information, for giving me the opportunity 
of paving the way for such a freedom. I am too proud of 
the compliments you honor me with, to affect to decline 
them ; and with respect to the comparative view I have of 
my own labors and yours, I can only assure you, that 
none of my little folks, about the formation of whose taste 
and principles I may be supposed naturally soHcitous, have 
ever read any of my own poems ; while yours have been 
our regular ev^ening's amusement. My eldest girl begins to 
read well, and enters as well into the humor as into the 
sentiment of your admirable descriptions of human life. 
As for rivalry, I think it has seldom existed among those 
who know, by experience, that there are much better things 
in the world than literary reputation, and that one of the 
best of these good things is the regard and friendship of 
those deservedly and generally esteemed for their worth or 
their talents. I believe many dilettanti authors do cocker 
themselves up into a great jealousy of any thing that inter- 
feres with what they are pleased to call their fame ; but I 
should as soon think of nursing one of my own fingers into 
a whitlow for my private amusement, as encouraging such 
a feeling. — I am truly sorry to observe you mention bad 
health : those who contribute so much to the improvement 
as well as the delight of society should escape this evil. 
I hope, however, that one day your state of health may 
permit you to view this country. I have very few calls to 
London, but it will greatly add to the interest of those 
which may occur, that you will permit me the honor of 
waiting upon you in my journey, and assuring you, in 
person, of the early admiration and sincere respect with 
which I have the honor to be, dear Sir, yours, Sec. 

"Walter Scott,'* 



"THE PARISH REGISTER." 185 

In the manly and sensible views of literature and 
literary fame expressed in the last of these letters, Mr. 
Crabbe fully concurred. He enjoyed the sweetness of 
well-earned credit; but at his mature years, and with 
his strong religious bias, he was little likely to be intoxi- 
cated with the applause of critics. His feelings on this 
occasion were either not perceptible, or only seen in 
those simple, open demonstrations of satisfaction, which 
show that no proud exulting spirit lurks within. Of 
some men it is said, that they are too proud to be vain ; 
but of him it might be said, that the candid manner in 
which he testified his satisfaction at success, was a proof 
that, while he felt the pleasure, he felt also its limited 
value — limited by the consciousness of defects ; limited 
by the consciousness that there were higher, nearer, and 
dearer interests in life than those of poetical ambition. 
How gratifying is the contemplation of such success, 
when it is only accessory to the more substantial pleas- 
ures of existence, namely, the consciousness of having 
fulfilled the duties for which that existence was espe- 
cially given, and the bright hope that higher and better 
things than this world can alSbrd await those vv'ho have 
borne the trials of adversity and prosperity with an 
humble and pious spirit ! How poor is such success 
when it is made " the pearl of great price ! " 

My brother now residing at Caius College, Cambridge, 
Mr. Crabbe more than once went thither, and remained 
a considerable time, dining in that college or Trinity 
every day, and passing his mornings chiefly in the bo- 
tanic garden. The new poems, and the remarks of the 
Reviews, had brought him again under the public eye ; 
so that he was now received, in that seat of learning, 
16* 



186 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

not only as a man who had formerly deserved the en- 
couragements of literature, but as one of the popular 
writers of the day — became an object of attention and 
curiosity, and added many distinguished names to the 
number of his acquaintance. 

On one occasion, happening to be at Cambridge dur- 
ing the Newmarket season, my father was driven by his 
son John in a tandem to the course ; and though he 
booked no bets, I have reason to think he enjoyed his 
ride quite as much as many of the lads by whom he 
was surrounded. Ever tenacious of important points of 
morality, no one looked with a more enlarged and be- 
nignant eye upon such juvenilities ; it always seemed to 
me as if his mind was incapable of seeing and appre- 
hending the little in any thing. 

Our respected friend Donn, being one of the con- 
gregation of the celebrated Mr. Simeon, and having a 
sincere regard for my father, persuaded him to occupy 
his pew in Little St. Mary's ; hoping, probably, that he 
might become a convert to his own views of religion. 
Accordingly, he took his seat there, and paid great at- 
tention to the sermon, and on his return from church 
wrote the substance of it, and preached it at Muston the 
following Sunday ; telling his congregation where he 
had heard it, in what points he entirely assented to the 
opinions it contained, and where he felt compelled to 
differ from the pious author. 

He also accompanied the worthy curator to the Book 
Society, consisting chiefly of inhabitants of the town ; 
and they had the kindness to enrol his name as an hon- 
orary member. But few of his friends at Cambridge 
survive him : Dr. Mansel, Mr. Davis, Mr. Lambert, Mr. 



"THE BOROUGH." Ig^' 

Tavel, and Mr. Donn, all died before him. Nowhere 
do we perceive the effects of time so evidently as in a 
visit to the universities. 

In the beginning of 1809, Dr. Cartwright expressed 
a wish that my father would prepare some verses, to be 
repeated at the ensuing meeting of that admirable in- 
stitution for the benefit of distressed authors, " The 
Literary Fund ; " and it happened that a portion of a 
work then on the stocks, " The Borough," was judged 
suitable for the occasion: — with some additions, ac- 
cordingly, it was sent, and spoken at the anniversary, 
with all the advantage that Mr. Fitzgerald gave to what- 
ever he recited. 

Mr. Crabbe was now diligently occupied in finishing 
this poem, which had been begun while he lived at 
Rendham ; and as our kind friends at Aldborough had 
invited us to taste the sea air after four years' residence 
in the centre of the kingdom, my father carried his 
manuscript for completion, and for the inspection of that 
judicious friend at Great Yarmouth, without whose 
counsel he decided on nothing. Can it be questioned 
that he trod that beach again, to which he had so often 
returned after some pleasing event, with somewhat more 
of honest satisfaction, on account of the distinguished 
success of his late poems ! The term exultation, how- 
ever, could no longer be applicable ; he was now an 
elderly clergyman, and much too deeply did he feel the 
responsibilities of life to be " carried off his feet," as 
the Duchess of Gordon playfully expressed it, by any 
worldly fascinations. Mr. Turner's opinion of " The 
Borough," was, upon the whole, highly favorable ; but 
he intimated, that there were portions of the new work 



188 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

which might be liable to rough treatment from the 
critics, and his decision, in both its parts, was confirmed 
by the public voice. As soon as we returned to Muston, 
Mr. Hatchard put it to the press : it was published in 
1810, and in 1816 it had attained its sixth edition. 

The opinion of the leading Reviews was again nearly 
unanimous ; agreeing that " The Borough " had greater 
beauties and greater defects than its predecessor, " The 
Parish Register." With such a decision an author may 
always be well pleased ; for he is sure to take his rank 
with posterity by his beauties ; defects, where there are 
great and real excellences, serve but to fill critical dis- 
sertations. In fact, though the character was still the 
same, and the blemishes sufficiently obvious, " The 
Borough " was a great spring upwards. The incidents 
and characters in " The Parish Register " are but ex- 
cellent sketches : — there is hardly enough matter even 
in the most interesting description, not even in the story 
of Phoebe Dawson, to gain a firm hold of the reader's 
mind : — but, in the new publication, there was a suffi- 
cient evolution of event and character, not only to 
please the fancy, but grapple with the heart. I think 
the '' Highwayman's Tale," in the twenty-third letter 
(Prisons) is an instance in point. We see the virtuous 
young man, the happy lover, and the despairing felon in 
succession, and enough of each state to give full force 
to its contrasts. I know that my father was himself 
much affected when he drew that picture, as he had 
been, by his own confession, twice before ; once at a 
very early period (see the "Journal to Mira"), and 
again when he was describing the terrors of a poor 
distracted mind, in his Sir Eustace Grey. The tale of 



"THE BOROUGH." 189 

the Condemned Felon arose from the following circum- 
stances : — while he was struggling with poverty in 
London, he had some reason to fear that the brother of 
a very intimate friend, a wild and desperate character, 
was in Newgate under condemnation for a robbery. 
Having obtained permission to see the man who bore 
the same name, a glance at once relieved his mind from 
the dread of beholding his friend's brother ; but still he 
never forgot the being he then saw before him. He was 
pacing the cell, or small yard, with a quick and hurried 
step; his eye was as glazed and abstracted as that of a 
corpse : — 

" Since his dread sentence, nothing seemed to be 
As once it was ; seeing he could not see. 
Nor hearing hear aright .... 
Each sense was palsied ! " 

In the common-place book of the author the follow- 
ing observations were found relative to " The Borough ; " 
and they apply perhaps with still more propriety to his 
succeeding poems : — "I have chiefly, if not exclusively, 
taken my subjects and characters from that order of 
society where the least display of vanity is generally to 
be found, which is placed between the humble and the 
great. It is in this class of mankind that more origi- 
nality of character, more variety of fortune, will be met 
with ; because on the one hand, they do not live in the 
eye of the world, and, therefore, are not kept in awe by 
the dread of observation and indecorum; neither, on 
the other, are they debarred by their want of means 
from the cultivation of mind and the pursuits of wealth 
and ambition, which are necessary to the developement 



X90 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

of character displayed in the variety of situations to 
whicli this class is liable." 

The preface to *' The Borough " shows how much his 
mind was engrossed and irritated, at this period, by the 
prevalence of Mr. Huntington's injurious doctrines in 
his neighbourhood, and even in his household. And 
his " Letter on Sects " not only produced a ridiculous 
threat from a Swedenborgian (dating from Peterborough) 
of personal chastisement ; but occasioned a controversy 
between the writer and the editor of the " Christian Ob- 
server," which appeared likely to become public. It 
ended, however, in mutual expressions of entire respect; 
and I am happy to think that the difference in their views 
was only such as different circumstances of education, 
&/C. might cause between two sincere Christians. 

" The Borough " was dedicated, in very grateful 
terms, to the present Duke of Rutland : from whom, and 
all the members of that noble family, more especially the 
Duchess Dowager, my father continued to receive polite 
attention during the whole period of his residence at 
Muston. At Belvoir he enjoyed from time to time the 
opportunity of mixing with many public characters, who, 
if their pursuits and turn of mind differed widely from 
his own, were marked by the stamp and polish of perfect 
gentlemen ; and no one could appreciate the charm of 
high manners more fully than he whose muse chose to 
depict, with rare exceptions, those of the humbler class- 
es of society. He was particularly pleased and amused 
with the conversation of the celebrated " Beau Brum- 
mell." 

My brother and I (now both clergymen), having cura- 
cies in the neighbourhood, still lived at Muston, and all 



MUSTON. 19X 

the domestic habits which I have described at Glemham 
were continued, with little exception. My father having 
a larger and better garden than in Suffolk, passed much 
of his time amongst his choice weeds, and though (my 
mother growing infirm) we did not take a family walk as 
heretofore, yet in no other respect was that perfect do- 
mestication invaded. When the evening closed, winter 
or summer, my father read aloud from the store which 
Mr. Colburn, out of his circulating library, sent and 
renewed, and nineteen in every twenty of these books 
were, as of old, novels ; while, as regularly, my brother 
took up his pencil, and amused our unoccupied eyes by 
some design strikingly full of character ; for he had an 
untaught talent in this way, which wanted only the me- 
chanical portion of the art to give him a high name 
among the masters of the time. One winter he copied 
and colored some hundreds of insects for his father, from 
expensive plates sent for his inspection by the Vice- 
Master of Trinity ; and this requiring no genius but 
pains only, I joined in the employment. " Now, old 
fellows," said my father, " it is my duty to read to 
you." 

The landscape around Muston was open and uninter- 
esting. Here were no groves nor dry green lanes, nor 
gravel roads to tempt the pedestrian in all weather ; but 
still the parsonage and its premises formed a pretty little 
oasis in the clayey desert. Our front windows looked 
full on the churchyard, by no means like the common 
forbidding receptacles of the dead, but truly ornamental 
ground ; for some fine elms partially concealed the small 
beautiful church and its spire, while the eye, travelling 
through their stems, rested on the banks of a stream and 



192 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

a picturesque old bridge.* The garden enclosed the 
other two sides of this churchyard ; but the crown of the 
whole was a gothic archway, cut through a thick hedge 
and many boughs, for through this opening, as in the 
deep frame of a picture, appeared, in the centre of the 
aerial canvass, the unrivalled Belvoir. 

Though we lived just in the same domestic manner 
when alone, yet my father visited much more frequently 
than in Suffolk : besides the castle, he occasionally dined 
at Sir Robert Heron's, Sir William Welby's, with Dr. 
Gordon, Dean of Lincoln, the Rector of the next village, 
and with others of the neighbouring clergy. And we 
had now and then a party at our house : but where the 
mistress is always in ill health and the master a poet, 
there will seldom be found the nice tact to conduct these 
things just as they ought to be. My father was conscious 
of this ; and it gave him an appearance of inhospitality 
quite foreign to his nature. If he neither shot nor 
danced, he appeared well pleased that we brought him a 
very respectable supply of game, and that we sometimes 
passed an evening at the assembly room of our metropolis, 
Grantham. My mother's declining state becoming more 
evident, he was, if possible, more attentive to her com- 
forts than ever. He would take up her meals when in 
her own room, and sometimes cook her some little nicety 
for supper, when he thought it would otherwise be spoiled. 
" What a father you have ! " was a grateful exclama- 
tion often on her lips. 

* See the lines on Muston in " The Borough," Letter L 

" Seek then thy garden's shrubby bound, and look 
As it steals by, upon the bordering brook ; 
That winding streamlet, limpid, lingering, slow, 
"Wliere tlie reeds whisper when the zephyrs blow," &c. 



"TALES IN VERSE." I93 

In the early part of the year 1812, Mr. Crabbe 
published — (with a dedication to the Duchess Dowager 
of Rutland) — his " Tales in Verse ; " a work as strik- 
ing as, and far less objectionable than, its predecessor, 
" The Borough ; " for here no flimsy connection is at- 
tempted between subjects naturally separate ; nor, conse- 
quently, was there such temptation to compel into verse 
matters essentially prosaic. The new tales had also the 
advantage of ampler scope and developement than his 
preceding ones. The public voice was again highly fa- 
vorable, and some of these relations were spoken of with 
the utmost warmth of commendation ; as, '* The Parting 
Hour," *' The Patron," " Edward Shore," and " The 
Confidant." 

My father wrote a letter at the time to Mr. Scott, and 
sent him a copy of all his works. His brother poet hon- 
ored him with the following beautiful reply : — 

«' Abbotsford, June 1, 1812. 

" Mr DEAR Sir, — I have too long delayed to thank you 
for the most kind and acceptable present of your three 
volumes. Now am I doubly armed, since I have a set for 
my cabin at Abbotsford as well as in town ; and to say 
truth, the auxiliary cop}^ arrived in good time, for my 
original one suffers as much by its general popularity 
among my young people, as a popular candidate from the 
hugs and embraces of his democratical admirers. The 
clearness and accuracy of your painting, whether natural 
or moral, renders, I have often remarked, your works gen- 
erally delightful to those whose youth might render them 
insensible to the other beauties with which they abound. 
There are a sort of pictures — surely the most valuable, 
were it but for that reason — which strike the uninitiated 
17 



194 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

as much as they do the connoisseur, though the last alone 
can render reason for his admiration. Indeed, our old friend 
Horace knew what he was saying, when he chose to address 
his ode, ' Virginihus puerisque ; ' and so did Pope when he 
told somebody he had the mob on the side of his version of 
Homer, and did not mind the high-flying critics at Button's. 
After all, if a faultless poem could be produced, I am satis- 
fied it would tire the critics themselves, and annoy the whole 
reading world with the spleen. 

" You must be delightfully situated in the Vale of Belvoir 
— a part of England for which I entertain a special kind- 
ness, for the sake of the gallant hero, Robin Hood, who, as 
probably you will readily guess, is no small favorite of mine; 
Ills indistinct ideas concerning the doctrine of meum and 
tuum being no great objection to an outriding borderer. 
I am happy to think that your station is under the protec- 
tion of the Rutland family, of whom fame speaks highly. 
Our lord of the ' cairn and the scaur ' waste wilderness and 
hundred hills, for many a league around, is the Duke of 
Buccleugh, the head of my clan ; a kind and benevolent 
landlord, a warm and zealous friend, and the husband of a 
lady, ' com7ne il y en apeu.' They are both great admirers of 
Mr. Crabbe's poetry, and would be happy to know him, 
should he ever come to Scotland, and venture into the 
Gothic halls of a border chief. The early and uniform 
kindness of this family, with the friendship of the late and 
present Lord Melville, enabled me, some years ago, to ex- 
change my toils as a barrister for the lucrative and respect- 
able situation of one of the clerks of our supreme court, 
which only requires a certain routine of official duty, neither 
laborious nor calling for any exertion of the mind. So that 
mv time is entirely at my own command, except when I am 
attending the court, which seldom occupies more than two 
hours of the morning during sitting. I besides hold in 
eommendam. the sheriffdom of Ettrick Forest, — which is 



"TALES IN VERSE." X95 

now no forest ; — so that I am a sort of pluralist as to law 
appointments, and have, as Dogberry says, two gowns, and 
every thing handsome about me. I have often thought it 
is the most fortunate thing for bards like you and me, to 
have an established profession and professional character, to 
render us independent of those worthy gentlemen, the re- 
tailers, or, as some have called them, the midwives of litera- 
ture, who are so much taken up with the abortions they 
bring into the world, that they are scarcely able to bestow 
the proper care upon young and flourishing babes hke ours. 
That, however, is only a mercantile way of looking at the 
matter ; but did any of my sons show poetical talent, of 
which, to my great satisfaction, there are no appearances, 
the first thing I should do, would be to inculcate upon him 
the duty of cultivating some honorable profession, and 
qualifying himself to play a more respectable part in society 
than the mere poet. And as the best corollary of my doc- 
trine, I would make him get your tale of ' The Patron,' by 
heart from beginning to end. It is curious enough that you 
should have republished ' The Village ' for the purpose of 
sending your young men to college, and I should have writ- 
ten the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel ' for the purpose of 
buying a new horse for the Volunteer Cavalry. I must now 
send this scrawl into town to get a frank, for God knows it 
is not worthy of postage. With the warmest wishes for 
your health, prosperity, and increase of fame — though it 
needs not, — • I remain, most sincerely and affectionately, 

yours, 

''Walter Scott." 

My father's answer to this kind communication haa 
been placed in my hands ; and I feel convinced that no 
offence will be taken by any one at an extract which I 
am about to give from it. The reader will presently dis- 
cover, that my father had no real cause to doubt the 



196 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

regard of the noble person to whom he alludes, and who 
subsequently proved a most efficient patron and friend. 
Mr. Crabbe says to Sir Walter, — 

" Accept my very sincere congratulations on your clerk- 
ship, and all things beside which you have had the goodness 
to inform me of. It is indeed very pleasant to me to find 
that the author of works that give me and thousands de- 
light, is so totally independent of the midwives you speak 
of. Moreover, I give you joy of an honorable intercourse 
with the noble family of Buccleugh, whom you happily 
describe to me, and by whose notice, or rather notice of my 
book, I am much favored. With respect to my delightful 
situation in the Vale of Belvoir, and under the very shade 
6f the castle, I will not say that your imagination has cre- 
ated its beauties, but I must confess it has enlarged and 
adorned them. The Vale of Belvoir is flat and unwooded, 
and save that an artificial straight-lined piece of water, and 
one or two small streams, intersect it, there is no other varie- 
ty than is made by the different crops, wheat, barley, beans. 
The castle, however, is a noble place, and stands on one 
entire hill, taking up its whole surface, and has a fine ap- 
pearance from the window of my parsonage, at which I 
now sit, at about a mile and a half distance. The duke 
also is a duke-like man, and the duchess a very excellent 
lady. They have great possessions, and great patronage, 
but — you see this unlucky particle, in one or other of 
Home Tooke's senses, will occur — but I am now of the 
old race. And what then ? — Well, I will explain. Thirty 
years since I was taken to Belvoir by its late possessor, 
as a domestic chaplain. I read the service on a Sunday, 
and fared sumptuously every day. At that time, the Chan- 
cellor, Lord Thurlow, gave me a rectory in Dorsetshire, 
small, but a living ; this the duke taught me to disregard as 
a provision, and promised better things. While I lived 



MUSTON. 197 

with him on this pleasant footing, I observed many persons 
in the neighbourhood, who came occasionally to dine, and 
were civilly received. ' How do you do, Dr. Smith ? How 
is Mrs. Smith ? ' — 'I thank your Grace, well : ' and so 
they took their venison and claret. ' Who are these ? ' said 
I to a young friend of the duke's. ' Men of the old race, 
Sir ; people whom the old duke was in the habit of seeing 
— for some of them he had done something, and had he yet 
lived, all had their chance. They now make way for us, 
but keep up a sort of connection.' The son of the old 
duke of that day and I were of an age to a week ; and with 
the wisdom of a young man, I looked distantly on his death 
and my own. I went into Suffolk and married, with decent 
views, and prospects of views more enlarging. His Grace 
went into Ireland — and died. Mrs, Crabbe and I philoso- 
phised as well as we could; and after some three or four years, 
Lord Thurlow, once more at the request of the Duchess 
Dowager, gave me the crown livings I now hold, on my 
resignation of that in Dorsetshire. They were at that 
time worth about 70/. or SO/, a year more than that, and 
now bring me about 400/. ; but a long minority ensued, — 
new connections were formed ; and when, some few years 
since, I came back into this country, and expressed a desire 
of inscribing my verses to the duke, I obtained leave, in- 
deed, but I almost repented the attempt, from the coldness 
of the reply. Yet, recollecting that great men are beset 
with appHcants of all kinds, I acquitted the duke of injus- 
tice, and determined to withdraw m3-self, as one of the 
old race, and give way to stronger candidates for notice. 
To this resolution I kept strictly, and left it entirel}'- to the 
family whether or no I should consider myself as a stranger, 
who, having been disappointed in his expectation, by un- 
foreseen events, must take his chance, and ought to take it 
patiently. For reasons I have no inclination to canvass, 
his Grace has obligingly invited me, and I occasionally meet 
17* 



198 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

his friends at the castle, without knowing whether I am to 
consider that notice as the promise of favor, or as a favor 
in itself — I have two sons, both in orders, partly from a 
promise given to Mrs. Crabbe's family, that I would bring 
them up precisely alike, and partly because I did not know 
what else to do with them. They will share a family prop- 
erty that will keep them from pining upon a curacy. And 
what more .-* — I must not perplex myself with conjectur- 
ing. You find, Sir, that you are much the greater man ; 
for except v/hat Mr. Hatchard puts into my privy purse, 
I doubt whether 6001. be not my total rccei])ts ; but he at 
present helps us, and my boys being no longer at college, 
I can take my wine without absolutely repining at the enor- 
mity of the cost. I fully agree with you respecting the 
necessity of a profession for a youth of moderate fortune. 
Woe to the lad of genius without it ! and I am f attered 
by what you mention of my Patron. Your praise is cur- 
rent coin." 

In the Slimmer of 1813, my mother, though in a very 
declining state of hedth, having a strong inclination to 
sec London once more, a friend in town procured us 
those very eligible rooms for sight-seers, in Osborne's 
Hotel, Adeiphi, which were afterwards occupied by their 
8able majesties of Otaheite. We entered London in the 
beginning of July, and returned at the end of September. 
My mother being too infirm to accompany us in our 
pedestrian expeditions, they were sometimes protracted 
to a late hour, and then we dropped in and dined at any 
coiTee-house that was near. My father's favorite resorts 
were the botanic gardens, where he passed many hours ; 
and in the evenings he sometimes accompanied us to one 
of the minor theatres, the larger being closed. He did 
not seem so much interested by theatrical talent as I had 



MUSTON. 199 

expected ; but he was one evening infinitely diverted at 
the Lyceum by Listen's Solomon Wiseacre, in *' Sh^rp 
and Flat," especially where he reads the letter of his 
dear Dorothy Dimple, and applies his handkerchief to 
his eyes, saying, "It is very foolish, but I cannot help 
it." He pronounced Listen *' a true genius in his way." 

Mr. Dudley North called upon my father, and he had 
again the pleasure of renewing his intercourse with that 
early friend and patron, dining with him several times 
during our stay. 

One morning, to our great satisfaction, the servant 
announced JMr. Bonnycastle. A fine, tall, elderly man 
cordially shook hands u'ith my father ; and we had, for 
the first time, the satisfaction of seeing one whose name 
had been from childhood familiar to us. He and my 
father hid, from some accidental impediment, not seen 
one another since their days of poverty, and trial, and 
drudgery ; and now, after thirty-three years, when they 
met again, both were in comparative affluence, both 
had acquired a name and reputation, and both were in 
health. Such meetings rarely occur. He entertained 
us with a succession of anecdotes, admirably told, and 
my father went as frequently to Woolwich as other en- 
gagements would permit. 

I have already mentioned, that, ever mindful when 
in town of his early struggle and providential deliver- 
ance, he sedulously sought out some objects of real 
distress. 

He now went to the King's Bench, and heard the cir- 
cumstances that incarcerated several of the inmates, and 
rejoiced in administering the little relief he could afford. 
We were not with him on these occasions ; but I knew 



200 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

incidentally that he was several mornings engaged in 
this way. 

Soon after our return to Muston, my father was re- 
quested by the Rev. Dr. Brunton of Edinburgh, the hus- 
band of the celebrated novelist, to contribute to a new 
collection of psalmody, then contemplated by some lead- 
ing clergymen of the church of Scotland. He consulted 
Sir Walter Scott, and received the following interesting 
letter : — 

"My dear Sir, — I was favored with your kind letter 
sometime ago. Of all people in the world, I am least enti- 
tled to demand regularity of correspondence 5 for being, one 
way and another, doomed to a great deal more writing than 
suits my indolence, I am sometimes tempted to envy the 
reverend hermit of Prague, confessor to the niece of Queen 
Gorboduc, who never saw either pen or ink. Mr. Brunton is a 
very respectable clergyman of Edinburgh; and I believe the 
work in which he has solicited your assistance is one adopted 
by the General Assembly, or Convocation, of the Kirk. I 
have no notion that he has any individual interest in it : he 
is a well-educated and liberal-minded man, and generally 
esteemed. I have no particular acquaintance with him my- 
self, though we speak together. He is at this very moment 
sitting on the outside of the bar of our supreme court, 
within which I am fagging as a clerk ; but as he is hearing 
the opinion of the judges upon an action for augmentation 
of stipend to him and to his brethren, it would not, I con- 
ceive, be a very favorable time to canvass a literary topic. 
But you are quite safe with him ; and having so much com- 
mand of scriptural language, which appears to me essential 
to the devotional poetry of Christians, I am sure you can 
assist his purpose much more than any man alive. 

" I think those hynms which do not immediately recall the 
warm and exalted language of the Bible are apt to be^ how- 



MUSTON. 201 

ever elegant, rather cold and flat for the purposes of devo- 
tion. You will readily believe that I do not approve of the 
vague and indiscriminate scripture language which the 
fanatics of old and the modern Methodists have adopted ; 
but merely that solemnity and peculiarity of diction, which 
at once puts the reader and hearer upon his guard as to the 
purpose of the poetry. To my Gothic ear, indeed, the 
Stabat Mater, the Dies Irce, and some of the other hymns 
of the Catholic church, are more solemn and affecting than 
the fine classical poetry of Buchanan : the one has the 
gloomy dignity of a Gothic church, and reminds us instantly 
of the worship to which it is dedicated; the other is more 
like a Pagan temple, recalling to our memory the classical 
and fabulous deities. This is, probably, all referable to the 
association of ideas — that is, if ' the association of ideas ' 
continues to be the universal pick-lock of all metaphysical 
difficulties, as it was when I studied moral philosophy, — or 
to any other more fashionable universal solvent which may 
have succeeded to it in reputation. Adieu, my dear Sir. I 
hope you and your family will long enjoy all happiness and 
prosperity. Never be discouraged from the constant use of 
your charming talent. The opinions of reviewers are really 
too contradictory to found any thing upon them, w^hether 
they are favorable or otherwise; for it is usually their 
principal object to display the abilities of the writers of the 
critical lucubrations themselves. Your Tales are univer- 
sally admired here. I go but little out, but the few judges, 
whose opinions I have been accustomed to look up to, are 
unanimous. Ever yours, most truly, 

"Walter Scott. ^' 

I know not whether my father ever ventured to engage 
in the work patronised by Dr. Brunton. That same 
autumn, an event occurred which broke up the family, 
and spoiled, if it did not entirely terminate, the domestic 



202 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

habits of years. My mother died October 21st, in her 
sixty-third year, and was buried in the chancel of Mus- 
ton. During a long period before her departure, her 
mind had been somewhat impaired by bodily infirmities; 
and at last it sank under the severity of the disease. She 
possessed naturally a great share of penetration and 
acuteness ; a firm unflinching spirit, and a very warm 
and feeling heart. She knew the worth of her husband, 
and was grateful for his kindness ; for she had only to 
express her wishes, and his own inclinations, if at vari- 
ance, were cheerfully sacrificed. " Never," said her own 
sister, *' was there a better husband, except that he was 
too indulgent." But so large a portion of her married 
life was clouded by her lamentable disorder, that I find 
written by my father on the outside of a beautiful letter 
of her own, dated long before this calamity, "Nothing 
can be more sincere than this, nothing more reasonable 
and affectionate ; and yet happiness was denied." 

Perhaps it was a fortunate circumstance for my father, 
that anxiety and sorrow brought on an alarming illness 
two days after her decease ; for any other calamity 
occurring at the same time with this heaviest of human 
ills, divides and diverts its sting. And yet, I am not 
sure that his own danger had this absorbing effect ; for 
he appeared regardless of life, and desired, with the 
utmost coolness, that my mother's grave might not be 
closed till it was seen whether he should recover. The 
disease bore a considerable resemblance to acute cholera 
without sickness, and was evidently, at last, carrying 
him off rapidly. At length emetics were fortunately 
tried, although he had always a great aversion to this 
species of medicine, and the effect was palpably benefi- 



MUSTON. 203 

cial, though his recovery was very gradual. His de- 
meanor, while the danger lasted, was that of perfect 
humility, but of calm hope, and unshaken firmness. 

A very short time after he resumed his duties, a letter 
arrived from the Duke of Rutland, offering him the living 
of Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, of which his Grace had the 
alternate presentation. To this offer, of which the Duke 
had at first rather mistaken the value, as compared with 
Muston, &-C., and which my father had, though with 
much gratitude, hesitated to accept, his noble patron 
afterwards added that of the incumbency of Croxton, 
near Belvoir ; and, the proposition being then accepted, 
we prepared to vacate Muston. And my father looked 
to a new residence without that feeling of regret which 
generally accompanies even an advantageous removal in 
later life ; for, with a strong attachment to some very 
friendly and estimable individuals in the vicinity, he felt 
the change produced by the late event in every part of 
the house and premises. His garden had become indif- 
ferent to him, nor was that occupation ever resumed 
again : besides, that diversity of religious sentiment, 
which I mentioned before, had produced a coolness in 
some of his parishioners, which he felt the more pain- 
fully, because, whatever might be their difference of 
opinion, he was ever ready to help and oblige them all 
by medical and other aid to the utmost extent of his 
power. They carried this unkind feeling so fur as to 
ring the bells for his successor, before he himself had 
left the residence. 

Before he quitted Leicestershire he witnessed a scene 
of hospitality at the castle, which has not often been 
exceeded in magnificence. In January, 1814, the infant 



204 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

heir of the House of Rutland was publicly baptized in 
the chapel of Belvoir, by the Archbishop of Canterbury, 
Dr. Manners Sutton, himself a near branch of the ducal 
family, and of whom my father was accustomed to say, 
that he carried as much personal grace and dignity 
about with him as any individual he ever met with. On 
this high occasion the Prince Regent and Duke of York 
were present as sponsors. A variety of magnificent 
entertainments ensued ; and my father, who was one of 
the company, had the honor of being presented, for the 
second time, to his late Majesty, and to the Duke of 
York, by both of whom he was received in a very flat- 
tering m.anner. 

Before finally quitting Leicestershire, my father paid a 
short visit to his sister at Aldborough, from whom he was 
about to be still more widely divided ; and one day was 
given to a solitary ramble among the scenery of by-gone 
years, — Parham, and the woods of Glemham, then in 
the first blossom of May. He did not return until 
night ; and in his note-book I find the following brief 
record of this mournful visit : — 

" Yes, I behold again the place, 

The seat of joy, the source of pain ; 
It brings in view the form and face 
That I must never see again. 

" The night-bird's song that sweetly floats 
On this soft gloom — this balmy air, 
Brings to the mind her sweeter notes 
That I again must never hear. 

" Lo ! yonder shines that window's light, 
My guide, my token, heretofore ; 
And now again it shines as bright, 

When those dear eyes can shine no more. 



TROWBRIDGE. 205 

** Then hurry from this place away ! 
It gives not now the bhss it gave ; 
For Death has made its charm his prey. 
And joy is buried in her grave." 

I may introduce, in connection with the above, some 
lines which were long afterwards found written on a 
paper in which my dear mother's wedding-ring, nearly 
worn through before she died, was wrapped : 

" The ring so worn, as you behold, 
So thin, so pale, is yet of gold : 
The passion such it was to prove ; 
Worn with life's cares, love yet was love." 

On the 3d of June, 1814, he was inducted to Trow- 
bridge church by the Rev. Mr. Fletcher. His diary has, 
among others, the following very brief entries : — "5th 
June, — first sermon at Trowbridge. 8th, Evening — 
solitary walk — night — change of opinion — easier, 
better, happier." To what these last words refer, I shall 
not guess ; but I well remember that, even after he had 
mingled with the lively society of Trowbridge, he was 
subject to very distressing fits of melancholy. My brother 
and I did not for some little time follow him to that 
place. The evening of our arrival, seeing us convers- 
ing cheerfully as we walked together in the garden be- 
fore his window, it seemed to have brought back to his 
memory the times when he was not alone ; for, happen- 
ing to look up, I saw him regarding us very earnestly, 
and he appeared deeply affected. That connection had 
been broken, which no other relationship can supply. 
These visitations of depression v/ere, however, gradually 
softened ; — he became contented and cheerful, and I 
hope I may add, positively happy. 
18 



206 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

CHAPTER IX. 
1814 — 1819. 

MR. CUABBE'S residence AND HABITS OF LIFE AT TROW- 
BRIDGE. HIS STUDY OF FOSSILS. HIS CORRESPOND- 
ENCE WITH MARY LEADBEATER. HIS JOURNAL KEPT 

DURING A VISIT TO LONDON. LETTERS TO AND FROM 

MR. CRABBE. HIS "TALES OF THE HALL," ETC. 

When my brother and myself arrived, on the occa- 
sion aheady alluded to, within a mile of Trowbridge, 
my father appeared on the road, having walked out to 
meet us ; and, as he returned with us in the chaise, the 
manner in which he pointed out various houses to our 
notice satisfied us that he had met with a very gratifying 
reception among the principal inhabitants of his new 
parish. On the very night of his coming to Trowbridge, 
he had been most cordially received by the family of the 
late Mr. Waldron ; and there, but not there only, we 
found the foundations already laid of intimacy, that soon 
ripened into friendship which death alone could break ; 
for such casual variations of humor as he was subject 
to, serve only to prove the strength of the sentiment that 
survived them. 

We were soon satisfied that Mr. Crabbe had made a 
wise and happy choice in this change of residence. 
While my mother lived, her infirm health forbade her 
mingling much in society, nor, with her to care for, did 
he often miss it ; but he was naturally disposed for, and 
calculated to find pleasure in, social intercourse; and 
after his great loss, the loneliness of Muston began to 



TROWBRIDGE. 207 

depress him seriously. In answering the Duke of Rut- 
land's kind letter, offering him the rectory of Trow- 
bridge, he said, " It is too true that Muston is no longer 
what it has been to me : here I am now a solitary with 
a social disposition, — a hermit without a hermit's resig- 
nation." What wonder that he was healthfully excited 
by the warm reception he was now experiencing among 
the most cultivated families of Trowbridge and its vi- 
cinity : by the attractive attentions of the young and 
gay among them, in particular, who, finding the old 
satirist in many things very different from what they had 
looked for, hastened to show a manifest partiality for his 
manners, as well as admiration of his talents ? — We 
were surprised, certainly, as well as delighted, to observe 
the tempered exuberance to which, ere many weeks had 
passed, his spirits, lately so sombre and desponding, were 
raised, — how lively and ready he appeared in every 
company, pleased with all about him, and evidently im- 
parting pleasure wherever he went. 
' But a physical change that occurred in his constitu- 
tion, at the time of the severe illness that followed close 
on my mother's death, had, I believe, a great share in 
all these happy symptoms. It always seemed to be his 
own opinion that at that crisis his system had, by a 
violent effort, thrown off some weight or obstruction 
which had been, for many years previously, giving his 
bodily condition the appearances of a gradual decline, 
— afflicting him with occasional fits of low fever, and 
vexatiously disordering his digestive organs. In those 
days, " life is as tedious as a twice-told tale," was an 
expression not seldom in his mouth ; and he once told 
me, he felt that he could not possibly live more than six 



208 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

or seven years. But now it seemed that he had recov- 
ered not only the enjoyment of sound heaUh, but much 
of the vigor and spirit of youthful feelings. Such a 
renovation of health and strength at sixty is rare enough ; 
and never, I believe, occurs unless there has been 
much temperance in the early period of life. Perhaps, 
he had never looked so well, in many respects, as 
he did about this time ; his temples getting more bare, 
the height of his well-developed forehead appeared as 
increased, and more than ever like one of those heads 
by which Wilkie makes so many converts to the beauty 
of human decay. He became stouter in person than he 
had been, though without fatness ; and, although he 
began to stoop, his limbs and motions were strong and 
active. 

Notwithstanding his flattering reception among the 
principal people of the place, he was far from being 
much liked, for some years, by his new parishioners in 
general : nor, in truth, is it at all diflicult to account for 
this. His immediate predecessor, the curate of the pre- 
vious rector, had been endeared to the more serious 
inhabitants by warm zeal and a powerful talent for 
preaching extempore, and had, moreover, been so uni- 
versally respected, that the town petitioned the Duke of 
Rutland to give him the living. His Grace's refusal had 
irritated many even of those who took little interest in 
the qualifications of their pastor, and engendered a feel- 
ing, bordering on ill-will, towards Mr. Crabbe himself, 
which was heightened by the prevalence of some reports 
so ridiculous, that I am almost ashamed to notice them ; 
such as, that he was a dissipated man — a dandy — even 
a gambler. And then, when he appeared among them, 



TROWBRIDGE. 209 

the perfect openness of his nature, — that, perhaps, im- 
politic frankness which made him at all times scorn the 
assumption of a scruple which he did not really feel, led 
bun to violate, occasionally, what were considered, among 
many classes in that neighbourhood, the settled laws of 
clerical decorum. For example, though little delighting 
in such scenes, except as they were partaken by kind 
and partial friends, he might be seen occasionally at a 
concert, a ball, or even a play. Then, even in the ex- 
ercise of his unwearied and extensive charity, he often 
so conducted himself as to neutralize, in coarse and bad 
minds, all the natural movements of gratitude ; mixing 
the clergyman too much with the almsgiver, and reading 
a lecture, the severity of which, however just, was more 
thought of than the benefaction it accompanied. He, 
moreover, soon after his arrival, espoused the cause of a 
candidate for the county representation, to whom the 
manufacturing interest, the prevalent one in his parish, 
was extremely hostile. Lastly, to conclude this long list, 
Mr. Crabbe, in a town remarkable for diversity of sects 
and warmth of discussion, adhered for a season unchang- 
ed to the same view of scriptural doctrines which had 
latterly found little favor even at simple Muston. As he 
has told us of his own Rector, in the " Tales of the 
Hall : " — 

" * A moral teacher ! ' some contemptuous cried ; 
He smiled, but nothing of the fact denied ; 
Nor, save by his fair life, to charge so strong replied. 
Still, though he bade them not on aught rely- 
That was their own, but all their worth deny, 
They called his pure advice his cold morality. 
* Heathens,' they said, ' can tell us right from wrong, 
But to a Christian higher points belong.' " 

18* 



210 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

But, while these things were against him, there were 
two or three traits in his character which wrought slowly, 
but steadily, in his favor. One was his boldness and 
uncompromising perseverance in the midst of opposition 
and reproach. During the violence of that contested 
election, while the few friends of Mr. Benett were al- 
most in danger of their lives, he was twice assailed by a 
mob of his parishioners, with hisses and the most virulent 
abuse. He replied to their formidable menaces by " ra- 
ting them roundly ; " and though he was induced to retire 
by the advice of some friends, who hastened to his suc- 
cour, yet this made no change in his vote, habits, or 
conduct. He continued to support Mr. Beiiett ; he 
walked in the streets always alone, and just as frequently 
as before ; and spoke as fearlessly. Mr. Canon Bowles, 
who was near him on this occasion, says, in a letter to 
the present writer, — 

" A riotous, tumultuous, and most appalling mob, at the 
time of election, besieged his house, when a chaise was at 
the door, to prevent his going to the poll and giving his 
vote in favor of my most worthy friend, John Benett of 
Pyl House, the present member for the county. The mob 
threatened to destroj'^ the chaise and tear him to pieces, if 
he attempted to set out. In the face of the furious assem- 
blage, he came out calmly, told them they might kill him if 
they chose, but, whilst alive, nothing should prevent his 
giving a vote at the election, according to his promise and 
principles, and set off, undisturbed and unhurt, to vote for 
Mr. Benett." 

He manifested the same decision respecting his re- 
ligious opinions ; for one or two reproachful letters made 
no impression, nor altered his language in the least. 



TROWBRIDGE. 211 

Such firmness, where it is the effect of principle, is sure 
to gain respect from all Englishmen. But mildness was 
as natural to him as his fortitude ; and this, of course, 
had a tendency to appease enmity even at its height. A 
benevolent gentle heart was seen in his manner and 
countenance, and no occasional hastiness of temper 
could conceal it ; — and then it soon became known that 
no one left his house unrelieved. 

But, above all, the liberality of his conduct with re- 
spect to dissenters brought a counter-current in his 
favor. Though he was warmly attached to the estab- 
lished church, he held that 

" A man's opinion was hh own, his due 
And just pojseasion, whether false or true ; " * 

and in all his intercourse with his much-divided parish- 
ioners he acted upon this principle, visiting and dealing 
indiscriminately, and joining the ministers of the various 
denominations in every good work. In the course of a 
few years, therefore, not only all opposition died away, 

* He wrote thus to a friend on the subject : — " Thousands and 
tens of thousands of sincere and earnest beUevers in tlie Gospel of 
our Lord, and in the general contents of Scripture, seeking its 
meaning with veneration and prayer, agree, I cannot doubt, in 
essentials, but differ in many points, and in some which unwise 
and uncharitable persons deem of much importance ; nay, think 
that there is no salvation without them. Look at the good, — good, 
comparatively speaking — just, pure, pious; the patient and suf- 
fering amongst recorded characters ; — and were not they of differ- 
ent opinions in many articles of their faith .' and can we suppose 
their heavenly Father will select from this number a few, a very 
few, and that for their assent to certain tenets, which causes, in- 
dependent of any merit of their own, in all probability, led them 
to embrace ? " 



212 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

but he became generally and cordially esteemed. They 
who differed from him admitted that he had a right also 
to his own religious and political opinions. His integrity 
and benevolence were justly appreciated ; his talents ac- 
knowledged, and his disposition loved. 

In the spring of 1815, my brother and I, thinking it 
probable that we might soon settle for life, each in some 
village parsonage, and that this was the only opportunity 
of seeing something of our native country — leaving 
my father in sound health and among attached friends, 
absorbed by his duties, his new connections and amuse- 
ments, — quitted Trowbridge about the same time, and 
continued absent from it, sometimes in London together, 
sometimes apart in distant places in the kingdom, for 
nearly two years. In that interval, though we constantly 
corresponded, I saw my father only twice. 

Calling, one day, at Mr. Ilatchard's, in Piccadilly, he 
said, " Look round," and pointed to his inner room ; and 
there stood my father, reading intently, as his manner 
was — with his knees somewhat bent, insensible to all 
around him. How homelike was the sight of that vene- 
rable white head among a world of strangers! He was 
engaged, and I was leaving town; and, after appointing 
a day to meet at Beccles, and a short cheerful half hour, 
we parteJ. 

When the time arrived, he joined my brother and me 
at Beccles, at the house of his kind sister-in-law, Miss 
Elmy ; where, after staying about a week, and being 
introduced to Lady Byron, who attracted his just admi- 
ration, he left us via Aldborough, and returned into 
Wiltshire. This was about the end of October, 1816. 



TROWBRIDGE. 213 

I cannot pass this date — October, 1816 — without 
offering a remark or two, suggested by my father's diary 
and note-book of that period. He was peculiarly fond 
of the society and correspondence of females : all his 
most intimate friends, I think, were ladies ; and I be- 
lieve no better proof could be given of the delicacy and 
purity of his mind and character. He loved the very 
failings of the female mind : men in general appeared 
to him too stern, reserved, unyielding, and worldly; 
and he ever found relief in the gentleness, the tender- 
ness, and the unselfishness of woman. Many of his 
chosen female friends were married, but this was not 
uniformly the case ; and will it seem wonderful, when 
we consider how he was situated at this time, — that, 
with a most affectionate heart, a peculiar attachment to 
female society, and with un wasted passions, Mr. Crabbe, 
though in his sixty-second year, should have again 
thought of marriage ? He could say with Shakspeare's 
good old Adam, — I quote lines which, for their sur- 
passing beauty, he himself never could read steadily, — 

" Though I look old, yet am I strong and histy ; 
For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood ; 
Nor did not with unbashful forehead vroo 
The means of weakness and debility : 
Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter, 
Frosty but kindly." 

Moreover, a poet's mind is proverbially always young. 
If, therefore, youth and beauty could more than once 
warm his imagination to outrun his prudence — for, 
surely, the union of youth and beauty with a man of 
such age can never be wise — I feel satisfied that no 



214 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

one will be seriously shocked with such an evidence of 
the freshness of his feelings. The critics of his last 
publication bestowed some good-natured raillery on the 
warmth with which he there expressed himself on cer- 
tain subjects — the increased tenderness of his love- 
scenes especially — and there occurred various inci- 
dents in his own later history that might afford his 
friends fair matter for a little innocent jesting ; but 
none that knew him ever regarded him with less re- 
spect on account of this pardonable sort of weakness ; 
and though love might be out of the question, I be- 
lieve he inspired feelings of no ordinary warmth in 
more than one of the fair objects of his vain devotion. 
These things were so well known among the circle of 
which at this period he formed the delight and orna- 
ment, that I thought it absurd not to allude to them. I 
have, however, no great wish to dwell on the subject ; 
though, I must add, it was one that never for a moment 
disturbed the tranquillity of his family ; nay, that, on one 
occasion at least, my brother and myself looked with 
sincere pleasure to the prospect of seing our father's 
happiness increased by a new alliance. 

Whether the two following sets of stanzas refer to the 
same period, I have not been curious to enquire. It is 
even possible that I may be wrong in suspecting any 
allusion to his personal feelings. 

I. 

" Unhappy is the wretch who feels 

The trembling lover's ardent flame, 

And yet the treacherous hope conceals 

By using Friendship's colder name. 



TROWBRIDGE. 215 

" He must the lover's pangs endure. 
And still the outward sign suppress ; 
Nor may expect the smiles that cure 
The wounded heart's concealed distress. 

" When her soft looks on others bend. 
By him discerned, to him denied, 
He must be then the silent friend. 
And all his jealous torments hide. 

" When she shall one blest youth select. 
His bleeding heart must still approve ; 
Must every angry thought correct. 

And strive to like, where she can love. 

" Heaven from my heart such pangs remove, 
And let these feverish sufferings cease — 
These pains without the hope of love. 
These cares of friendship, not its peace. 

n. 

" And wilt thou never smile again ; 
Thy cruel purpose never shaken ? 
Hast thou no feeling for my pain, 

Refused, disdained, despised, forsaken ? 

*' Thy uncle crafty, careful, cold, 

His wealth upon my mind imprinted ; 

His fields described, and praised his fold. 

And jested, boasted, promised, hinted. 

" Thy aunt — I scorned the omen — spoke 
Of lovers by thy scorn rejected ; 
But I the warning never took 

When chosen, cheered, received, respected. 

" Thy brother, too — but all was planned 
To murder peace — all freely granted ; 
And then I lived in fairy land. 
Transported, blessed, enrapt, enchanted. 



216 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

" Oh, what a dream of happy love ! 

From which the wise in time awaken ; 
While I must all its anguish prove, 

Deceived, despised, abused, forsaken I " • 

I am persuaded that but few men have, even in early 
life, tasted either of the happiness or the pain which at- 
tend the most exquisite of passions, in such extremes 
as my father experienced at this period of his life. In 
his young " true love, " indeed, he was so soon as- 
sured of a full return, that one side of the picture could 
scarcely have been then revealed to his view ; and I 
cannot but consider it as a very interesting trait in the 
history of his mind, that he was capable, at so late a 
stage, of feeling, with regard to the other side of it, so 
exactly as a man of five-and-twenty would have done 
under the same circumstances. 

But my brother, in December, 1816, married, with his 
entire approbation, the daughter of the late William 
Crowfoot, Esq., and sister to the present Dr. Crowfoot, of 
Beccles, and immediately came to reside as his curate at 
Trowbridge ; thus relieving him from much of the fa- 
tigue of his professional duties, as well as from domestic 
cares and the weariness of a solitary house. Soon after 
this I again joined the fiimily ; and, early in 1817, ray 
father had the satisfaction of marrying me to the daugh- 
ter of the late Thornas Timbrell, Esq., of Trowbridge, 
and of seeing my wife and myself established, within 
twenty miles of him, in the curacy of Pucklechurch ; 
where, during the rest of his life, he had always at his 
command a second, and, what was often refreshing to 
him, a rural home. 



TROWBRIDGE. 217 

In relating my own impressions of my father, I have 
often been apprehensive that I have described him in 
terms which those who did not know him may deem ex- 
aggeration ; yet am I supported by the testimony, not 
only of many who were well acquainted with his worth, 
but of one who knew him not, except by his publications 
and his letters. The talented individual who began the 
following correspondence, which was continued till her 
death in 1826, read and appreciated his character, nearly 
as well as the most intimate of his friends. The daughter 
of Richard Shackleton, the intimate friend of Burke, had 
met my father at Mr. Burke's table in the year 1784, 
when, just after his marriage, he had the pleasure of 
introducing his bride to his patron. This distinguished 
lady possessed that superiority of intellect which marked 
her family, and was evidently honored by Mr. Burke, not 
merely as the daughter of his old friend, but as one wor- 
thy to enjoy that high title herself. Her correspondence 
with Mr. Burke forms an interesting feature in Mr. 
Prior's able work. She was a poet, though not of the 
highest class, and sent to her eminent friend some pleas- 
ing verses on his residence at Beaconsfield, which drew 
forth a long and warm reply. How would he have been 
gratified had he lived to read the very superior publica- 
tions in prose, " Cottage Dialogues," ** Cottage Biogra- 
phy,'' &LC., which she gave to the world after she had 
changed her name to Leadbeater ! This excellent 
woman had not forgotten that early meeting with Mr. 
Crabbe ; and in November, 1816, he had the unexpected 
pleasure of receiving from her the first of a long series of 
letters ; his replies to which are rendered particularly 
interesting by the playful ingenuousness with which he 
19 



218 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

describes himself. They are, in fact, most valuable 
additions to his autobiographical sketch. 

From Mrs. Leadbeater. 

" Ballitore, 7th of llth month, 1816. 
" 1 BELIEVE it will surprise George Crabbe to receive a 
letter from an entire stranger, whom, most probably, he 
does not remember to have ever seen or heard of, but who 
cannot forget having met him at the house of Edmund 
Burke, Charles Street, James's Square, in the year 1784. 
I was brought thither by my father, Richard Shackleton, 
the friend, from their childhood, of Edmund Burke. My 
dear father told thee, that ' Goldsmith's would now be the 
deserted village.^ Perhaps thou dost not remember this 
compliment ; but I remember the ingenuous modesty which 
disclaimed it. He admired ' The Village,' ' The Library,' 
and ' The Newspaper ' exceedingly ; and the delight with 
which he read them to his family could not but be accept- 
able to the author, had he known the sound judgment and 
th'e exquisite taste which that excellent man possessed. 
But he saw no more of the productions of the Muse he 
admired, whose originality was not the least charm. He is 
ctead — the friend whom he loved and honored, and to 
whose character thou dost so much justice in the Preface 
to ' The Parish Register,' is also gone to the house ap- 
pointed for all living. A splendid constellation of poets 
arose in the literary horizon. I looked around for Crabbe. 
' Why does not he, who shines as brightly as any of these, 
add his lustre ? ' I had long thought thus, when, in an 
Edinburgh Review, I met with reflections similar to my 
own, which introduced ' The Parish Register.' Oh ! it 
was like the voice of a long-lost friend ; and glad was I to 
hear that voice again in ' The Borough ! ' — still more in 
the * Tales,' which appear to me excelling all that preceded 
them. Every work is so much in unison with our own 



TROWBRIDGE. 219 

feelings, that a wish for information concerning- them and 
their author, received into our hearts, is strongly excited. 
One of our friends. Dykes Alexander, who was in Ballitore, 
in 1810 I think, said, he was personally acquainted with 
thee, and spoke highly of thy character. I regretted I had 
not an opportunity of conversing with him on this subject, 
as perhaps he would have been able to decide arguments 
which have arisen ; namely, whether we owe to truth or 
to fiction that ' ever new delight ' which thy poetry affords 
us ? Thy characters, however singular some of them may 
be, are never unnatural ; and thy sentiments, so true to 
domestic and social feelings, as well as to those of a higher 
nature, have the convincing power of reality over the mind ; 
and / maintain that all thy pictures are drawn from life. 
To enquire whether this be the case, is the excuse which I 
make to myself for writing this letter. I wish the excuse 
may be accepted by thee ; for I greatly fear I have taken 
an unwarrantable liberty in making the enquiry. Though 
advanced in Ufe, yet from an education of peculiar sim- 
plicity, and from never having been long absent from my 
retired native village, I am too little acquainted with deco- 
rum. If I have now transgressed the rules it prescribes, 
I appeal to the candor and liberality of thy mind to forgive 
a fault caused by a strong enthusiasm. I am thy sincere 

friend, 

" Mary Leadbeater." 

'' P. S. Ballitore is the village in which Edmund Burke 
was educated by Abraham Shackleton, whose pupil he be- 
came in 1741, and from whose school he entered the college 
of Dublin in 1744. The school is still flourishing." 

To Mrs. Leadbeater. 

" Trowbridge, 1st of 12th month, 1816. 
" Mary Leadbeater ! — Yes, indeed, I do well remem- 
ber you ! Not Leadbeater then, but a pretty demure lass, 



220 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

standing a timid auditor while her own verses were read 
by a kind friend, but a keen judge. And I have in my 
memory your father's person and countenance, and you 
may be sure that my vanity retained the compliment which 
he paid me in the moment when he permitted his judg- 
ment to slip behind his good humor and desire of giving 
pleasure : — Yes, I remember all who were present ; and, 
of all, are not you and I the only survivors ? It was the 
day — was it not ? — when I introduced my wife to my 
friend. And now both are gone ! and your father, and 
Richard Burke, who was present (yet again I must ask — 
was he not ?) — and Mrs. Burke ! All departed — and so, 
by and by, they will speak of us. But, in the mean time, 
it was good of you to write. Oh very — very good. 

" But, are you not your father's own daughter ? Do 
you not flatter after his manner .'' How do you know the 
mischief that you may do in the mind of a vain man, who 
is but too susceptible of praise, even while he is conscious 
of so much to be placed against it .'' I am glad that you 
like my verses : it would have mortified me much if you 

had not, for you can judge as well as write Yours 

are really very admirable things ; and the morality is as 
pure as the literary merit is conspicuous. I am not sure 
that I have read all that you have given us ; but what I 
have read has really that rare and almost undefinable quality, 
genius ; that is to say, it seizes on the mind, and commands 
attention, and on the heart, and compels its feelings. 

" How could you imagine that I could be otherwise than 
pleased — delighted rather ~ with your letter ? And let me 
not omit the fact, that I reply the instant I am at liberty, 
for I was enrobing myself for church. You are a child of 
simplicity, I know, and do not love robing ; but you are a 
pupil of liberality, and look upon such things with a large 
mind, smiling in charity. Well ! I was putting on the 
great black gown, when my servant — (you see I can be 



TROWBRIDGE. 221 

pompous, to write of gowns and servants with such famil- 
iarity) — when he brought me a letter first directed, the 
words yet legible, to ' George Crabbe, at Belvoir Castle,' 
and then by Lord Mendip to ' the Reverend ' at Trowbridge ; 
and at Trowbridge I hope again to receive these welcome 
evidences of your remembrance, directed in all their sim- 
plicity, and written, I trust, in all sincerity. The delay was 
occasioned by a change in my place of residence. I now 
dwell in the parsonage of a busy, populous, clothing town, 
sent thither by ambition and the Duke of Rutland. It is 
situated in Wiltshire, not far from Bath. 

" There was a Suffolk family of Alexanders, one of whom 
you probably mean ; and as he knew very little of me, I see 
no reason why he should not give me a good character. 
Whether it was merited is another point, and that will 
depend upon our ideas of a good character. If it means, 
as it generally does, that I paid my debts, and was guilty of 
no glaring, world-defying immorality — why, yes ! I was 
so far a good character. But before the Searcher of Hearts 
what are our good characters ? 

" But your motive for writing to m^e was your desire of 
knowing whether my men and women were really existing 
creatures, or beings of my own imagination .'' Na}^, Mary 
Leadbeater, yours was a better motive : you thought that 
you should give pleasure by writing, and — yet you will 
think me very vain — you felt some pleasure yourself in 
renewing the acquaintance that commenced under such 
auspices ! Am I not right ? My heart tells me that I am, 
and hopes that you will confirm it. Be assured that I feel 
a very cordial esteem for the friend of my friend, — the 
virtuous, the worthy character whom I am addressing. 
Yes, I will tell you readily about my creatures, whom I 
endeavoured to paint as nearly as I could and dared ; for, 
in some cases, I dared not. This you will readily admit : 
besides, charity bade me be cautious. Thus far you are 
19* 



222 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

correct : there is not one of whom I had not in my mind 
the original ; but I was obliged, in some cases, to take them 
from their realsitutations, in one or two instances to change 
even the sex, and, in many, the circumstances. The near- 
est to real life was the proud, ostentatious man in ' The 
Borough,' who disguises an ordinary mind by doing great 
things ; but the others approach to reality at greater or 
less distances. Indeed, I do not know that I could paint 
merely from my own fancy ; and there is no cause why we 
should. Is there not diversity sufficient in society .'' and 
who can go, even but a little, into the assemblies of our 
fellow-wanderers from the way of perfect rectitude, and not 
find characters so varied and so pointed, that he need not 
call upon his imagination .'' 

" Will you not write again } ' Write to thee, or for the 
public i ' wilt thou not ask i To me and for as many as 
love and can discern the union of strength and simplicity, 
purity and good sense. Our feeling and our hearts is the 
language you can adopt. Alas, / cannot with propriety 
use it — our I too could once say ; but I am alone now 5 
and since my removing into a busy town among the multi- 
tude, the loneliness is but more apparent and more melan- 
choly. But this is only at certain times ; and then I have, 
though at considerable distances, six female friends, un- 
known to each other, but all dear, very dear, to me. With 
men, I do not much associate ; not as deserting, and much 
less disliking, the male part of society, but as being unfit 
for it ; not hardy nor grave, not knowing enough, nor 
sufficiently acquainted with the every-day concerns of men. 
But my beloved creatures have minds with which I can 
better assimilate. Think of you I must; and of me, I must 
entreat that you would not be unmindful. Thine, dear 
lady, very truly, 

" George Crabbe." 



TROWBRIDGE. 223 

I dare say no one will put an unfavorable interpretation 
on my father's condescension to Mrs. Leadheater's feel- 
ings, if, indeed, it was any thing but a playful one, in 
dating the above letter after the duaker fashion, " 1st of 
12th month." I need not transcribe the whole of this 
excellent lady's next letter ; but the first and last para- 
graphs are as follows : — 

" Ballitore, 29th of 12th month, 1816. 

" Respected Friend, — I cannot describe the sensa- 
tions with which I began to read thy letter. They over- 
powered me. I burst into tears, and, even after I had 
recovered composure, found it necessary frequently to wipe 
my spectacles before I reached the conclusion. I felt aston- 
ishment mingled with dehght, to find that T, in my lonely 
valley, was looked upon with such benevolence, by him who 
sits upon the top of the hill. That benevolence encourages 
me again to take up the pen. — That day on which I had 
the pleasure of seeing thee and thy wife was the tenth day 
of the sixth month (June), 1784. It was the day thou 
introduced thy bride to thy friends. She sat on a sofa with 
Jane Burke ; thou stood with Edmund near the window. 
May I ask how long it is since thou wast visited by the 
affliction of losing her, and how many children are left to 
comfort thee ? But this is a delicate chord, and perhaps 
I should not touch it. The report of my having received 
a letter from thee quickly spread through Ballitore, and I 
was congratulated by my family, friends, and neighbours, 
with unfeigned cordiality, on this distinction ; for we partake 
in each other's joys and sorrows, being closely united in 
friendship and good neighbourhood. We are mostly a 
colony of Quakers ; and those who are not of our profes- 
sion, in their social intercourse with us conform to our sober 
habits. None of us are wealthy, all depending on industry 



224 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

for our humble competence, yet we find time to recreate 
ourselves with books, and generally see every publication 
which is proper for our perusal. Some profess not to relish 
poetry ; yet thou hast contrived to charm us all, and sorry 
shall we be if thy next visit be to take leave. Therefore 
do not mar the pleasure we anticipate, by a threat so alarm- 
ing. In thy partiality for female society, I discern a resem- 
blance to dear Cowper, our other moral poet, but enlivened 
by that flow of cheerfulness, which he so sadly wanted. 

" I cannot define my motives for writing to thee. I per- 
fectly recollect that one of them was the wish to be assured 
of the reality of thy characters. I suppose, also, I wished 
to know thy own ; but I did not imagine I could give plea- 
sure to thee by such an address ; indeed, I feared offending, 
though that fear was dissipated when I opened one of thy 
volumes. How condescending art thou to gratify my curi- 
osity, and how glad am I to find myself right in my conjec- 
ture ! But I felt confident that what impressed our hearts 
so deeply must be truth. I could say much more, but I 
curb myself, considering who I am, and whom I address ; 
and am, with sentiments of gratitude and respect, sincerely 
thy friend, 

"Mary Leadbeater." 

I am approaching the period of my father's return to 
the high society of London ; and, perhaps, a few remarks 
on his qualifications for mixing in such circles may, 
with propriety, precede some extracts from the Journal 
which he kept during his first season in the metropolis. 
When he re-entered such society, his position was very 
diflferent from what it had been when he sat at the 
tables of Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and the 
Duke of Rutland. Then he was under the avowed 



TROWBRIDGE. 225 

patronage of persons, whose station must have ensured 
him easy admittance among their equals, whatever might 
have been his own talents for society : but when he 
returned to high life, though his poetical reputation 
would, no doubt, have procured him an extensive intro- 
duction, nothing but his personal qualifications, agreea- 
ble or shining, could have enabled him to retain his 
place — nay, continually to enlarge the circle of his 
acquaintance, and see the cordiality of his distinguished 
admirers growing into the warmth and attachment of 
friendship. 

Now, certainly, all this was not to be attributed to any 
very shining qualities in his conversation. He had no 
talent for speaking — never, except at one or two public 
meetings, uttered a sentence in the form or tone of a 
speech in his life, but said (as was admirably remarked 
by Mr. Murray) " uncommon things in so natural and 
easy a way, that he often lost the credit of them." Nor 
were such conversational powers as he did possess 
always at his command — they required to be drawn 
forth and fostered. Perhaps, no man with an appearance 
so prepossessing was ever more distrustful of his powers 
to please. Coldness and reserve would benumb them ; 
and he would be abstracted, and even distressed. But 
where he was once received warmly, he generally felt 
that strong partiality which ever unlocked his heart and 
drew forth his powers ; and, under particular circum- 
stances, when his spirits were raised, he could be the 
most delightful of companions. 

Argument he sustained with great impatience : he 
neither kept close to his point, nor preserved his tem- 
per. This dislike of controversial discourse arose, in 



226 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

part, probably, from a consciousness that he had not 
cultivated the faculty of close logical reasoning ; but 
partly, also, from an opinion, or rather feeling, that he 
had, against all pretence of colloquial equality. He had 
seen the submission paid to the opinions of Johnson and 
Burke ; and he always readily followed the lead of any 
one whom he thought skilled on the topic in question ; 
but when he ventured an assertion himself, he expected 
similar deference. And, to be candid, though what he 
said was pretty sure to be just, yet there was an unfair 
and aristocratic principle in this expectation, which I 
never could think quite in harmony with the general 
modesty of his nature. 

But he had a recommendation for the best society 
infinitely more availing than even the brilliancy of wit. 
In appearance, manners, and disposition, he was entirely 
the gentleman. Mr. Burke had discovered this stamp 
when he had recently left the warehouse of Slaughden, 
and since that time his walk had been at Belvoirj Glem- 
ham, and Cambridge, and his profession, his studies, his 
age, and his literary success, had fully ripened the char- 
acter. Perhaps it may be said, that no one so humbly 
born and bred, ever retained so few traces of his origin. 
His person and his countenance peculiarly led the mind 
from the suspicion of any, but an highly cultivated and 
polished education ; venerable, clerical, intellectual, — 
it seemed a strange inconsistency to imagine him, even 
in early youth, occupied as a warehouseman ; and, in 
fact, there was no company in which his appearance 
would not have proclaimed him an equal. But, above 
all, he had the disposition of a gentleman, the genuine 
politeness of a virtuous mind, and a warm and benevo- 



TROWBRIDGE. 227 

lent heart, ready to enter into the interests of others, 
grateful for their attentions, and happy in their happi- 
ness. 

The vicinity of Trowbridge to Bath, Bowood, &c. 
drew Mr. Crabbe by degrees into the distinguished 
society of London. He was first introduced to the 
noble family of Lansdowne by his brother poet, and, in 
latter days, attached friend, the Reverend W. L. Bowles ; 
and it was, I believe, under that roof that he began an 
acquaintance, which also soon ripened into a strong 
friendship, with the author of the " Pleasures of Memo- 
ry." Mr. Rogers urged him to pay a visit in the sum- 
mer season to the metropolis : he did so, and, taking 
lodgings near his new friend's residence in St. James's 
Place, was welcomed in the most cordial manner by the 
whole of that wide circle, — including almost every 
name distinguished in politics, fashion, science, litera- 
ture, and art, — of which Mr. Rogers has so long been 
considered as the brightest ornament. His reception at 
Holland House was peculiarly warm, in consequence of 
his early acquaintance with the late Mr. Fox ; but, in- 
deed, every mansion of that class was now open to 
receive him with pride and pleasure ; nor were the 
attentions of royalty withheld. In this brilliant society, 
to which after this time he returned during some weeks 
for several successive seasons, he became personally 
acquainted with Mr. Moore, who soon afterwards came 
to reside at no great distance from Trowbridge, and 
maintained an affectionate intercourse with him to the 
last. He was also introduced, on one of these London 
visits, by Mr. Murray, of Albemarle Street, to his cor- 
respondent Sir Walter Scott; and the admiration and 



228 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

respect they had long felt for each other, were but 
heightened and confirmed by mutual observation. I am 
happy to say, that among my father's papers have been 
found several note-books, containing short memoranda 
of these exciting scenes, and from them I shall extract 
various specimens. They will, however artless, convey, 
perhaps, no inadequate impression of the brilliant recep- 
tion he met with. A friend who saw much of him 
under these new circumstances, says, *' It is not easy 
to conjecture the effect which the modern world pro- 
duced on one who had associated with Burke, Reynolds, 
and Johnson. As for himself, there can be no doubt 
that he produced a very pleasing impression on those 
who now, for the first time, beheld and heard him. 
There was much of the old school in his manners, and 
even in llie disposition of his beautiful white hair ; but 
this sat gracefully on his time of life and professional 
character, and an apparent simplicity, arising from his 
strangeness to some of the recent modes of high life, 
was mingled with so much shrewdness of remark, that 
most people found his conversation irresistibly amusing. 
When in society which he particularly liked, he would 
manifest some of the peculiar traits which distinguish 
his writings, in keen pointed sarcastic humor, and pithy 
observations : and to this he joined, in the company of 
ladies, such a spice of the old-fashioned gallantry and 
politeness, as never fails to please when it is unaffected 
and genuine." 

I proceed to make some extracts from his London 
Journal of 1817. He reached town in company with 
his friend, Mr. W. Waldron, on the 19th of June : — 



LONDON, 1817. 229 

" June 24th. — Mr. Rogers ; his brother, and family. 
Mr. and Mrs. Moore, very agreeable and pleasant people. 
Foscolo, the Italian gentleman. Dante, &c. Play, Kemble 
in Coriolanus. 

" 2Qth. — Mr. Rogers and the usual company at break- 
fast. Lady Holland comes and takes me to Holland House. 
The old building. Addison's room. Bacon. Mr. Fox. 
The busts and statues. Gardens very pleasant and walks 
extensive. Meet at Holland House Mr. Allen. He appears 
equally intelligent and affable. Must have a difficult part, 
and executes it well. A young Grecian under Lady Hol- 
land's protection. Meet Mr. Campbell. Mr. Moore with 
us. Mr. Rogers joins us in the course of the day. Met 
Mr. Douglas,* in my way, at the Horse Guards, and prom- 
ised to dine with him on Saturday. He says I cannot leave 
Holland House ; that it is experimentum crucis. Dinner. 
Mr. Brougham, who in some degree reminds me of Mr. 
Burke. Ready at all subjects, and willing : very friendly. 
Duchess of Bedford, daughter of the Duchess of Gordon. 
The confidence of high fashion. In the evening, Countess 
Besborough, a frank and affectionate character, mother of 
Lady Caroline Lamb, invites me to her house the next eve- 
ning. — Miss Fox. t I remember meeting her thirty years 
since ; but did not tell her so, and yet could not help ap- 
pearing to know her ; and she questions me much on the 
subject. Parry it pretty well. — Mrs, Fox.+ All the re- 
mains of a fine person ; affectionate manners and informed 
mind. Diffident and retiring. Appeared to be much affect- 
ed at meeting a friend of her husband. Invites me to her 
house ', and I am told she was much in earnest. Retire 
very late. 

* The late Hon. Sylvester Douglas, 
t Sister to the late Mr. Fox. 
X Widow of the Right Hon. Charles James Fox. 
20 



230 LIFh OF CRABBE. 

''Ilth. — Breakfast with Mr. Brougham and Lady Hol- 
land. Lord Holland to speak at Kemble's retiring, at the 
meeting at Freemason's Tavern to-morrow. Difficulty of 
procuring me an admission ticket, as all are distributed. 
Trial made by somebody, I knew not who, failed. This 
represented to Lady Holland, who makes no reply. Morn- 
ing interview with Mr. Brougham. Mr. Campbell's letter.* 

* I take the liberty of inserting Mr. Campbell's letter ; — a letter 
full of what only a high mind in such eminent station would ex- 
press. My father had found Mr. Campbell a much younger man 
than he had expected. 

" Sydenham, June 25, 1817. 
" My dear Sih, — I sent an apology to Lady Holland for not 
being able to dine at Holland House to-day ; and at that very 
moment of writing, I felt that I owed also an apology to you for 
not testifying, by my acceptance of the invitation, the high value 
which I attached to an opportunity of meeting you. It was, in- 
deed, an indispensable engagement that kept me, otherwise it 
would have been an humiliating self-reflection to have neglected 
such an occasion of being in the company of Crabbe. You thought 
me an old man ; but, in addressing you, my dear Sir, I feel myself 
younger than even the difference of our years might seem to 
justify. I have a very youthful feeling of respect, — nay, if you 
will pardon me for the liberty of saying so, — something of a filial 
upward-looking affection for your matured genius and patriarchal 
reputation. This reverence for your classic name would have been 
equally strong in my mind if I had not been so fortunate as to 
form an acquaintance with you ; which your kind manners have 
made a proud era in the little history of my life. That time, and 
that spot, in the library of Holland House, I shall never forget, 
when you shook me a second time by the hand. It must be one 
of the most enviable privileges of your senior and superior merit to 
confer pleasure on such men as myself, by recognising them as 
younger brothers of your vocation. One token of your kindness 
was a promise to give me a day of your society. I would not be 
importunate on this head; but I cannot help reminding you of it, 



LONDON, 1817. 231 

He invites us to Sydenham. I refer it to Mr. Rogers and 
Mr. Moore. Return to town. The porter dehvers to me 
a paper containing the admission ticket, procured by Lady 
Holland's means: whether request or command I know not. 
Call on Mr. Rogers. We go to the Freemason's Tavern. 
The room filled. We find a place about halfway down the 
common seats, but not where the managers dine, above the 
steps. By us Mr. Smith, one of the authors of the Re- 
jected Addresses. Known, but no introduction. Mr. Perry, 
editor of the Morning Chronicle, and Mr. Campbell, find 
us, and we are invited into the Committee-room. Kemble, 
Perry, Lord Erskine, Mr. Moore, Lord Holland, Lord 
Ossory, whom I saw at Holland House. Dinner announc- 
ed. Music. Lord Erskine sits between me and a young 
man, whom I find to be a son of Boswell. Lord Holland's 
speech after dinner. The Ode recited.* Campbell's speech. 
Kemble's — Talma's. We leave the company, and go to 
Vauxhall to meet Miss Rogers and her party. Stay late. 

" '28th. — Go to St. James's Place. Lord Byron's new 
works, Manfred, and Tasso's Lament. The tragedy very 
fine — but very obscure in places. The Lament more per- 
spicuous, and more feeble. Seek lodgings, 37, Bury Street. 
Females only visible. Dine as agreed with Mr. Douglas- 
Chiefly strangers. My new lodgings a Httle mysterious. 

and assuring you that Mrs. Campbell has a very proper sympathy 
with me in the enthusiasm which I feel to have the honor of your 
presence under my roof. Our excellent friend Mr. Rogers, I trust, 
will accompany you, and you wull have the goodness to fix the day. 
Believe me, most estimable Sir, yours, truly, 

"T. Campbell." 

* This beautiful Ode is now included in Mr. Campbell's collec- 
tive works. 



232 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

" '29th. — Breakfast at the Coffee-house in Pall Mall, and 
go to Mr. Rogers and family. Agree to dine, and then join 
their party after dinner. Mr. Stothard. Foscolo. Drive 
to Kensington Gardens in their carriage. Grosvenor Gate. 
Effect new and striking. Kensington Gardens have a very 
peculiar effect ; not exhilarating, I think, yet alive and 
pleasant. Return to my new lodgings. Enquire for the 
master. There is one, I understand, in the country. Am 
at a loss whether my damsel is extremely simple, or too 
knowing. 

" 30th. — Letter from Mrs. Norris.* Like herself. First 
hour at Mr. Murray's. A much younger and more lively 
man than I had imagined. — A handsome drawing-room 
above, where his friends go when they please, usually from 
two to five o'clock. Books of all, but especially of expen- 
sive, kinds. There new works are heard of, and there 
generally first seen. Pictures, by PhiUips, of Lord Byron, 
Mr. Scott, Campbell, Moore, Rogers (yet unfinished). 
Mr. Murray wishes me to sit. Advise with Mr. Rogers. 
He recommends. Dine with Lord Ossory. Meet Marquis 
and Marchioness of Lansdowne.f Engage to dine on Fri- 
day. Lord Gower. + 



* Mr. Crabbe was on terms of intUTiate fiiendship with Mr. and 
Mrs. Norris, of Hughenden Hall, near Wycombe, Bucks. 

t I take the liberty of inserting the following passage from a let- 
ter with which I have recently been honored by the noble mar- 
quis : — " Any testimony to your father's amiable and unaffected 
manners, and to that simplicity of character which he united to the 
uncommon powers of minute observation, would indeed be uncalled 
for ; as it could only express the common feeling of all who had 
access to his society." 

t Now Duke of Sutherland. 



LONDON, 1817. 233 

"July 1st. — I foresee a long train of engagements. 
Dine with Mr. Rogers. Company : Kemble, Lord Ers- 
kine, Lord Ossory, Sir George Beaumont, Mr. Campbell, 
and Mr. Moore. Miss R. retires early, and is not seen 
any more at home. Meet her, at the Gallery in Pall Mall, 
with Mr. Westall. 

"2c?. — Duke of Rutland. List of pictures burned at 
Belvoir Castle. Dine at Sydenham, with Mr. and Mrs 
Campbell, Mr. Moore, and Mr. Rogers. Poets' Club." 
* * * * 

I here interrupt my father's Journal, in order to give 
part of a letter with which I have lately been honored 
by Mr. Campbell. 

" The first time I met Crabbe was at Holland House, 
where he and Tom Moore and myself lounged the better 
part of a morning about the park and library ; and I can 
answer for one of the party at least being very much 
pleased with it. Our conversation, I remember, was about 
novelists. Your father was a strong Fieldingite, and I as 
sturdy a Smollettite. His mildness in literary argument 
struck me with surprise in so stern a poet of nature, and I 
could not but contrast the unassumingness of his manners 
with the originality of his powers. In what may be called 
the ready-money small-talk of conversation, his facility 
might not perhaps seem equal to the known calibre of his 
talents ; but in the progress of conversation I recollect 
remarking that there was a vigilant shrewdness that almost 
eluded you by keeping its watch so quietl^^ Though an 
oldish man when I saw him, he was not a ' laudator tern- 
ports acti,' but a decided lover of later times. 

" The part of the morning which I spent at Holland 
House with him and Tom Moore, was one, to me at least, 
of memorable agreeableness. He was very frank, and 
20* 



234 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

even confidential, in speaking of his own feelings. Though 
in a serene tone of spirits, he confessed to me that since the 
death of his wife he had scarcely known positive happiness. 
I told him that in that respect, viz. the calculation of our 
own happiness, we are apt to deceive ourselves. The man 
whose manners are mild and tranquil, and whose conversa- 
tion is amusing, cannot be positively unhap])y. 

" When Moore left us we were joined by Foscolo ; and 
I remember as distinctly as if it had been yesterday, the 
contrasted light in which Crabbe and Foscolo struck me. 
It is not an invidious contrast — at least my feelings towards 
Ugo's memory intend it not to be so, — yet it was to 
me morally instructive, and, I need hardly say, greatly in 
favor of your father. They were both men of genius, and 
both simple. But, what a different sort of simplicity ! I 
felt myself between them as if I had been standing between 
a roaring cataract and a placid stream. Ugo raged and 
foamed in argument, to my amusement, but not at all to 
your father's liking. He could not abide him. What we 
talked about I do not recollect ; but only that Ugo's im- 
petuosity was a foil to the amenity of the elder bard. 

" One da}^ — and how can it fail to be memorable to me 
when Moore has commemorated it? — your father, and 
Rogers, and Moore, came down to Sydenham pretty early 
in the forenoon, and stopped to dine with me. We talked 
of founding a Poets' Club, and even set about electing 
the members, not by ballot, but viva voce. The scheme 
failed, I scarcely know how ; but this I know, that a week 
or so afterwards, I met with Perry, of the Morning Chron- 
icle, who asked me how our Poets' Club was going on. I 
said, * I don't know — we have some difficulty in giving it 
a name, — we thought of calling ourselves the Bees.^ ' Ah,' 
said Perry, ' that 's a httle different from the common re- 
port, for they say you are to be called the IVasps.' I was 
so stung with this waspish report, that I thought no more 
of the Poets' Club. 



LONDON, 1817. 235 

" The last time I saw Crabbe was, when I dined with 
him at Mr. Hoare's at Hampstead. He very kindly came 
with me to the coach to see me off, and I never pass that 
spot on the top of Hampstead Heath, without thinking of 
him. As to the force and faith of his genius, it would be 
superfluous in me to offer any opinion. Pray pardon me 
for speaking of his memory in this very imperfect manner, 
and believe me, dear Sir, yours very truly, 

"T. Campbell." 



I return to Mr. Crabbe's Journal : — 

" Jw/y 3c?. — Letter from Trowbridge. I pity you, my 
dear John, but I must plague you. Robert Bloomfield. 
He had better rested as a shoemaker, or even a farmer's 
boy ; for he would have been a farmer perhaps in time, 
and now he is an unfortunate poet. By the way, indis- 
cretion did much. It might be virtuous and affectionate in 
him to help his thoughtless relations ; but his more liberal 
friends do not love to have their favors so disposed of. He 
is, however, to be pitied and assisted. Note from Mr. 
Murray respecting the picture. Go, with Mr. Rogers, in 
his carriage, to Wimbledon. Earl and Countess Spencer. 
The grounds more beautiful than any I have yet seen ; 
more extensive, various, rich. The profusion of roses 
extraordinary. Dinner. Mr. Heber, to whom Mr. Scott 
addresses one canto of Marmion. Mr. Stanhope. A pleas- 
ant day. Sleep at Wimbledon. 

" 4th. — Morning view, and walk with Mr. Heber and 
Mr. Stanhope. Afterwards Mr. Rogers, Lady S., Lady 
H. A good picture, if I dare draw it accurately : to place 
in lower life, would lose the pecuharities which depend 
upon their station ; yet, in any station. Return with 
Mr. Rogers. Dine at Lansdowne House. Sir James 



236 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Mackintosh, Mr. Grenville, elder brother to Lord Grenville. 
My visit to Lord Lansdowne's father in this house, thirty- 
seven years since ! Porter's lodge. Mr. Wynn. Lord 
Ossory. 

''5th. — My thirty lines done; but not well, I fear: 
thirty daily is the self-engagement. Dine at George's 
Coffee-house. Return. Stay late at Holborn. The kind 
of shops open at so late an hour. Purchase in one of them. 
Do not think they deceive any person in particular. 

" 6th. — Call at Mr. Rogers's, and go to Lady Spencer. 
Go with Mr. Re gers to dine at Highbury with his brother 
and family. Miss Rogers the same at Highbury as in town. 
Visit to Mr. John Nichols. He relates the story of our 
meeting at Muston, and enquires for John, Sec. His 
daughters agreeable women. Mr. Urban wealthy. Arrive 
at home in earl^^ time. Go to Pall Mall Coffee-house and 
dine. Feel hurt about Hampstead. Mr. Rogers says I 
must dine with him to-morrow, and that I consented when 
at Sydenham; and now certainly they expect me at 
Hampstead, though I have made no promise. 

" 7th. — Abide by the proniise, and take all possible care 
to send m}' letter ; so that Mr. Hoare * may receive it 
before dinner. Set out for Holborn Bridge to obtain assist- 
ance. In the way find the Hampstead stage, and obtain a 
promise of delivery in time. Prepare to meet our friends 
at Mr. Rogers's. Agree to go to Mr. Phillips, and sit two 
hours and a half. Mrs. Phillips a very agreeable and beau- 
tiful woman. Promise to brcakfist next morning. Go to 
Holborn. Letter from Mr. Frere. Invited to meet Mr. 
Canning, &c. Letter from Mr. Wilbraham. Dinner at 

* The late Samuel Hoare, Esq. of Hampstead. 



LONDON, 1817. 237 

Mr. Rog-ers's with Mr. Moore and Mr. Campbell, Lord 
Strangford, and Mr. Spencer. Leave them, and go by 
engagement to see Miss O'Neil, in Lady Spencer's box. 
Meet there Lady Besborough, with whom I became ac- 
quainted at Holland House, and her married daughter. 
Lady B. the same frank character ; Mr. Grenville the same 
gentle and polite one : Miss O'Neil natural, and I think 
excellent ; and even her ' Catherine,' especially in the act 
of yielding the superiority to the husband, well done and 
touching. Lady Besborough obligingly offers to set me 
down at twelve o'clock. Agreed to meet the Hon. W. 
Spencer* at his house at Petersham, and there to dine next 
day with Mr. Wilbraham. 

" 8<A. — Mr. Phillips. Sit again. Begin to think some- 
thing may be made. Mrs. Phillips. Find a stray child. 
Mrs. Phillips takes him home. Mr. Murray's. Mr. Frere. 
To dine on Monday next. Dine this day with Mr. North. 
Meet Lord Dundas. Mrs. Wedall. Story of the poor 
weaver, who begged his master to allow him a loom, for the 
work of which he would charge nothing ; an instance of 
distress. Thirty lines to-day ; but not yesterday : must 
work up. — I even still doubt whether it be pure simplicity, 
a Uttle romantic, or ■ — a great deal simplified. Yet I may, 
and it is likely do, mistake, 

"9th. — Agree to dine with Mr. Phillips. A day of 
indisposition unUke the former. Dine at George's Coffee- 
house, and in a stupid humor. Go to a play not very 
enlivening ; yet the ' Magpie and Maid' was, in some parts, 
affecting, till you reflected. 

'^ 10th. — Apology for last night. Maiden at a ball; I 
hope not mistress too. Rise early for the coach to Twick- 

* Mr. Spencer, the well-known translator of " Leonora," &c. &c. 



238 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

enham, as I prefer going first to Mr. Wilbraham, who first 
invited me. Ask what is the name of every place except 
one, and that one is Twickenham, and so go a mile at least 
beyond. Walk back to Twickenham. Meet a man carry- 
ing a child. He passed me, but with hesitation ; and there 
was, as I believed, both distress and honesty. As he 
watched my manner, he stopped, and I was unwilling to 
disappoint him. The most accomplished actor could not 
counterfeit the joy and surprise at first, and then the joy 
without the surprise afterwards. The man was simple, and 
had no roguish shrewdness. Pope's house.* Civil man, 
and something more. Mr Wilbraham. A drive round the 
country three hours. Richmond Hill. Recollect Sir Josh- 
ua's house. Hampton Court. Petersham. In Mr. Wil- 
braham's carriage to Brentford. Take a chaise to Knights- 
bridge. Make up my thirty lines for yesterday and to-day. 
Take a story from the Dutch imposition, but with great 
variation. 

" 11 th. — Breakfast with Mr. Rogers : talk of Mr. Frere. 
Mr. Douglas. Called for Mr. Spencer. This gentleman is 
grandson to the Duke of Marlborough. He married, at 
nineteen, a very beautiful and most accomplished woman, 
in the court of the Duke of Weimar. She was sixteen. 
His manner is fascinating, and his temper all complacency 
and kindness. His poetry far beyond that implied in the 
character of Vers de Societe. I am informed Mrs. S. has 
very extraordinary talents. Go in the carriage with his 
daughter to Petersham by Ham House. Introduced to 
Mrs. Spencer, Sir Harry Englefield, and Mr. Standish, a 
Bond-street man, but of the superior kind ; and so is Sir 
Harry. A very delightful morning. Gardens. Miss Spen- 



* Pope's villa, now inhabited by Sir Walhca Waller, Bart., and 
his lady, the Baroness Howe. 



LONDON, 1817. 239 

cer drives me to Richmond in her pony-chaise. The Duke 

and Duchess of Cumberland and Madame W came in 

the evening. The Duchess very engaging. Daughter of 
the Duke of Weimar, and sister to the Queen of Prussia. 
Mr. Spencer with them at the court. All this period pleas- 
ant, easy, gay, with a tincture of melancholy that makes it 
delicious. A drawback on mirth, but not on happiness, 
when our affection has a mixture of regret and pity. 

" 14th. — Some more intimate conversation this morning 
with Mr. and Mrs. Moore. They mean to go to Trow- 
bridge. He is going to Paris, but will not stay long. 
Mrs. Spencer's Album. Agree to dine at Curzon Street. 

A welcome letter from . This makes the day more 

cheerful. Suppose it were so. Well ! 'tis not ! Goto 
Mr. Rogers, and take a farewell visit to Highbury. Miss 

Rogers. Promise to go when . Return early. Dine 

there, and propose to see Mr. Moore and Mr. Rogers in the 
morning when they set out for Calais. 

''15th. — Was too late this morning. Messrs. Rogers 
and Moore were gone. Go to church at St. James's. The 
sermon good ; but the preacher thought proper to apologise 
for a severity which he had not used. Write some lines in 
the solitude of Somerset House, not fifty yards from the 
Thames on one side, and the Strand on the other ; but 
as quiet as the sands of Arabia. I am not quite in good 
humor with this day ; but, happily, I cannot say why. 

"16th. — Mr. Boswell the younger. Malone's papers. 
He is an advocate, like most of his countrymen, for Mary. 
Mr. Frere's poem.* Meet at Mr. Murray's Mr. Heber. 

* " The Monks and the Giants," published under the name of 
Whistle craft, of Stowmarket, Suffolk. 



240 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Mr. Douglas takes me to Mr. Frere at Brompton. Meet 
Mr. Canning- and Lord Binning. Conversation on church 
affairs. A little on the poem of the Stowmarket men. Go 
home with Mr. Douglas, and call for the ladies at St. James's 
Place. Write about eighty verses. Agree to stay over 
Sunday. 

''16th. — Picture finished, which allows me more time. 
Lady Errol* and Lady Holland. Invitation from Lord 
Binning.f Write, in consequence of my second delay, to 
Mrs. Norris and Anna. Resolve not to stay beyond Tues- 
day. Farewell dinner with Mr. Canning. Dine to-day 
with my friends in Curzon Street. Pleasant, as all is there. 
Mrs. Spencer the same agreeable young woman. Besides 
the family, Sir Harry Englefield, a Catholic. His character 
opens upon me very much. He appeared to be in earnest, 
and I hope he was. It would be hard if we were judged by 
our youthful sins, or even if sins necessarily implied unbelief. 
Meet in my way Lady Besborough, with a gentleman and 
a young lady. She does not introduce me, and I pass on ; 
but, describing the lady, I understand it was Lady Caroline 
Lamb. Lady Besborough comes to night to Mr. Spencer's, 
and confirms it. She invites me to Hampton Row. Pleas- 
ant evening. 

" nth. — Omitted a visit to the Duchess of Rutland at an 
earlier time. She invites me to dine 5 but our days did 
not accord. Notes from Mr. Frere and Mr. Canning. 
Dine with Mr. Douglas. Mr. Boswell the younger : I met 
the elder in the morning. Many gentlemen with us. Mr. 
Douglas sends us home in his carriage. Good day, at least 

* The Countess Dowager of Errol, wife of the Right Honorable 
John Hookham Frere. 

t Now Earl of Haddington. 



LONDON, 1817. 241 

as far as relates to Mr. Douglas, who is ever the same. I 
wrote to Trowbridge. They are not correct in their opin- 
ion : yet I love London ; and who does not, if not confined 
to it ? A visit from Sir Harry Englefield. There is an 
affectionate manner, which almost hides his talents ; and 
they are not trifling. Wrote my lines to-day, but no more. 

" ISth. — Read the pamphlet Mr. Boswell recommended : 
natural, certainly, and the man had too much provocation 
for his act. There is the wish of the heart to acquit itself, 
but that is very common. Dine with Mr. Murray. Very 
fine day. Sir Harry in good spirits, except during his vehe- 
mence. Mr. Phillips. Mr. Chantry. His ' Mother and 
Infants ' in the exhibition. Mr. and Mrs. Graham. The 
Mrs. Graham* who wrote the lively India Journal, a de- 
lightful woman ! Mr. Phillips argued, and preserved his 
temper. Sir Harry was silent, for fear of being tumultuous. 
The dinner in every respect as in a nobleman's house. Join 
the ladies. Mrs. Graham still lively. Sir Harry's account 
of the Isle of Wight ; a folio, with prints. At eleven 
o'clock enters Lady Caroline Lamb. She offers to take me 
on a visit to her company at twelve o'clock. I hesitated, 
for I had curiosity ; bat finally declined. Mr. Wilkie. His 
picture in the exhibition much admired. 

" 19th. — Agreed to sit half an hour, for Mr. Phillips to 
retouch the picture. Breakfast with them once more. — 
Leave them, and return to Bury Street, and find a note ! ! 
What an unaccountable ! It is so ridiculous ! — Foscolo ; 
who said he would call, and I must go with him to his 
friends. Lady Flint, and sister, and nieces. He came, and I 
assented. I was paid for compliance. They are very 
delightful women. Go and call on Mrs. Spencer : find Sir 

* Maria Graham, now Mrs. Calcott. 

21 



242 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Harry Englefield. These are two favorite characters. Dine 
at Lord Binning's. Lady Binning', with one visiter. She 
knows me, and we are at ease. Mr. Canning more lively as 
with his friends, and very pleasant. Mr. Frere could not 
dine. Lady Errol indisposed. Mr. Robinson.* Conceive 
J. B.'s size and good temper, with a look of more under- 
standing, and better manner. Mr. Huskisson — counte- 
nance less open ; grew more free, and became pleasant. 
The Speaker f polite, and rather cheerful ; a peculiar cast 
of the countenance ; pleasing certainly. Mrs. Canning I 
thought reserved j but all appearance of this retired. I 
was too much a stranger among friends ; but before we part- 
ed, all became easy. Lord Binning a sensible, polite man. 

" 20f A. — I wake ill this morning and nervous; and so 
little do we judge of the future, that I was half incUned to 
make apologies, and not join the pleasantest of all parties. 
I must go from this infatuating scene. — Walk in the Park, 
and in some degree recover. Write two hours. At seven 
go to Sir Harry Englefield. A large house that overlooks 
the Park and Serpentine River. Disappointed of Mr. Spen- 
cer ; but Mrs. Spencer, and Miss Churchill, and Miss 
Spencer dine with us. Mr. Murray and Mr. Standish. 
Nothing particularly worthy of remark at dinner ; but after 
dinner, one of the best conversations since I came to town. 
Mr. Spencer and Miss Churchill chiefly ; on the effect of 
high polish on minds ; chiefly female ; Sir Harry sometimes 
joining, and Miss Spencer. A very delightful evening. Sir 
Harry's present of Ariosto's inkstand. Of a double value, 
as a gift, and from the giver. Mr. Standish and Mr. Mur- 
ray leave us. Part painfully at one o'clock. Yes, there are 
at Trowbridge two or three ; and it is well there are. 

* The Right Honorable Frederick Robinson, now Earl of Ripen, 
t The Rio-ht Honorable Charles Manners Sutton. 



LONDON, 1817. 243 

Promise (if I live) to return in the winter. Miss Churchill 
a very superior and interesting woman. Take leave of my 
friend Sir Harry. The impression rather nervous, and they 

will smile at , I am afraid ; but I shall still feel. I shall 

think of this evening. 

" 21 si. — I would not appear to myself superstitious. I 
returned late last night, and my reflections Avere as cheerful 
as such company could make them, and not, I am afraid, of 
the most humiUating kind ; yet, for the first time these 
many nights, I was incommoded by dreams, such as would 
cure vanity for a time in any mind where they could gain 
admission. Some of Baxter's mortifying spirits whispered 
very singular combinations. None, indeed, that actually 
did happen in the very worst of times, but still with a 
formidable resemblance. It is doubtless very proper to have 
the mind thus brought to a sense of its real and possible 
alUances, and the evils it has encountered, or might have 
had ; but why these images should be given at a time when 
the thoughts, the waking thoughts, were of so opposite a 
nature, I cannot account. So it was. Awake, I had been with 
the high, the apparently happy : we were very pleasantly en- 
gaged, and my last thoughts were cheerful. Asleep, all was 
misery and degradation, not my own only, but of those who 
had been. — That horrible image of servility and baseness — 
that mercenary and commercial manner ! It is the work of 
imagination, I suppose ; but it is very strange. I must 
leave it.* — Walk to Holborn. Call and pay for yesterday's 
coffee, which, with a twenty-pound note and some gold, 

* Mr. Moore, on reading this journal in MS., writes thus: — 
" The Journal of your father is a most interesting document ; and 
it is rather curious that some parts of it should so much resemble 
the journalizing style of Byron, particularly that describing his 
frightful dream after a day of enjoyment." 



244 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

I could not discharge then. A letter from Mrs. Norris ; 
like herself and all hers. Now for business. Called at 
Holborn, and stayed an hour with P , York Coffee- 
house. Return and write. Go to Oxford Street to take 
a place for Wycombe, a mile and a half from Mr. Norris. 
After short delay, I pay my visit to Mrs. Spencer. Her 
husband's note left Avith me. Find her and the young 
people. Return by Mr. Murray's, and send to Lady Er- 
rol's from his house. He obligingly sent his servant to 
Bury Street. Lady Errol much better. May hope to meet 
Mr. Frere this day at dinner. Prepare to go with Mr. 
Douglas to Mr. Canning's. — Mr. Canning's dinner. Gar- 
dens and house in very beautiful style : doubly secluded, 
and yet very near town.* Mr. Huskisson, Uvo younger 
gentlemen, Mr. Frere, Mr. Canning, Mr. Douglas, and 
myself Claret more particularly excellent. Ministerial 
claret. A lively day. Shakspeare. Eton and Westmin- 
ster. Mr. Canning. — This is the last evening in town, 
notwithstanding the very kind invitation of Mr. Douglas. 
And here I may close my journal, of certainly the most 
active, and, with very little exception, — that is, the ex- 
ception of one or two persons, — the most agreeable of all 
excursions — except ." 

" 22c?. — Oxford Street politician, who assures me nothing 
can be more true, than that ministers send spies to Ireland 
with money to intoxicate the poor people ; who are per- 
suaded to enter into treason while drunk, are taken next 
morning to a magistrate, condemned on the evidence of the 
seducer, and executed before noon : and this man seemed 
ready to testify on oath, as a major somebody had testified 
to him. — Three o'clock for Wycombe. Arrive at eight, 

* Mr. Canning at this time resided at Gloucester Lodge near 
Bronjpton. 



LONDON, 1817. 245 

and walk to the great house, as my guide was proud to call 
it. Mrs. Norris : she looks as one recovering, but not quite 
well. Her spirits as usual. 

" 23c?. — A vile engagement to an oratorio at church, 
by I know not how many noisy people ; women as well as 
men. Luckily, I sat where I could write unobserved, and 
wrote forty lines, only interrupted by a song of Mrs. Brand 
— ^ a hymn, I believe. It was less doleful than the rest. — 
Party at dinner. Music after dinner, much more cheerful 
and enlivening than at church. — Solitary evening walk. 
Things soon become familiarized, when the persons are well 
known. Thought of Sunday next, and wrote about half a 
sermon upon confirmation. 

" Mth. — Read Miss Edgeworth's dramas. Company at 
breakfast. Finish my sermon. — Must determine to go 
to-morrow. Younger dear's birthday," 

The following is an extract from a letter of the 
25th : — 

" This visit to London has, indeed, been a rich one. I 
had new things to see, and was, perhaps, something of a 
novelty myself Mr. Rogers introduced me to almost every 
man he is acquainted with ; and in this number were com- 
prehended all I was previously very desirous to obtain a 
knowledge of." 

Shortly after his return to Trowbridge from this ex- 
cursion of 1817, my father wrote as follows to his friend 
at Ballitore : — 

" A description of your village society would be very 
gratifying to me — how the manners differ from those in 
larger societies, or in those under different circumstances. 
21*= 



246 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

I have observed an extraordinary difference in village man- 
ners in England, especially between those places otherwise 
nearly alike, when there was and when there was not a 
leading man, or a squire's family, or a manufactory near, 
or a populous, vitiated town, &c. All these, and many 
other circumstances, have great influence. Your quiet 
village, with such influencing minds, I am disposed to think 
highly of. No one, perhaps, very rich — none miserably 
poor. No girls, from six years to sixteen, sent to a factory, 
where men, women, and children of all ages are continually 
with them breathing contagion. Not all, however : we are 
not so evil — there is a resisting power, and it is strong ; 
but the thing itself, the congregation of so many minds, and 
the intercourse it occasions, will have its powerful and 
visible effect. But these you have not : yet, as you men- 
tion your schools of both kinds, you must be more popu- 
lous and perhaps not so happy as I was giving myself to 
believe. 

" I will write my name and look for two lines ; but com- 
plying with you, my dear lady, is a kind of vanity.* I 



* Mrs. Leadbeater had requested Mr. Crabbe to give an auto- 
graph for Mr. Wilkinson, the Quaker poet, the same worthy man 
to whom Wordsworth refers in the verses, 

" Spade witli which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands," &c. 

and he sent the following scrap : — 

" Enclosed, at Mrs. Leadbeater's request, for Thomas Wilkin- 
son's collection of handwritings : — 

' One calm, cold evening, when the moon was high, 
And rode sublime within the cloudy sky. 
She sat within her hut, nor seemed to feel 
Or cold, or want, but turned her idle wheel ; 
And with sad song its melancholy tone 
Mixed — all unconscious that she dwelt alone.' — 

" The above six lines are from a discarded poem : they are good 
for little, and the epithet ' idle ' may not seem proper for a spinning 



TROWBRIDGE 



247 



find, however, no particular elevation of spirit, and will do 
as you desire ; indeed, your desire must be very unlike 
yours, if I were not glad to comply with it ; for the world 
has not spoiled you, Mary, I do believe : now it has me. I 
have been absorbed in its mighty vortex, and gone into the 
midst of its greatness, and joined in its festivities and frivoli- 
ties, and been intimate with its children. You may Hke me 
very well, my kind friend, while the purifying water, and 
your more effectual imagination, is between us ; but come 
you to England, or let me be in Ireland, and place us where 
mind becomes acquainted with mind, — and then ! ah, 
Mary Leadbeater ! you would have done with your friend- 
ship with me ! Child of simplicity and virtue, how can you 
let yourself be so deceived ? Am I not a great fat Rector, 
living upon a mighty income, while my poor curate starves 
with six hungry children, upon the scraps that fall from the 
luxurious table ? Do I not visit that horrible London, and 
enter into its abominable dissipations ? Am I not this day 
going to dine on venison and drink claret ? * Have I not 

wheel : but my poor heroine was discarded, and therefore it was 
idle, because profitless." 

* Mrs. Leadbeater says, in her answer to this letter , — " Have I 
given too partial an account of our little community ? Ask those 
who visit Ballitore ; who quit it with regret, and return to it with 
delight ; some of whom call it the Classic Vale, some the Vale of 
Tempe, some the Happy Valley, some Simplicity's Vale ; while 
others take a higher flight, and dignify it by the name of Athens : 
all agreeing, that we live like one large family. Thus, from infancy 
to age preserved in this safe enclosure, surrounded by excellent 
examples, have I not much to be accountable for .' And yet how 
little am I cleansed from secret faults, I shall not say, for I fear 
one of these is a desire to appear better than I am to him whose 
good opinion I do indeed highly value, and who, I believe, is dis- 
posed to be more severe upon himself than upon another ; but if 
the graceful figure which I saw in London — designated by my 



248 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

been at election dinners, and joined the Babel-confusion of a 
town-hall ? Child of simplicity ! am I fit to be a friend to 
you, and to the peaceful, mild, pure, gentle people about 
you ? One thing- only is true, — I wish I had the qualifi- 
cation ; but I am of the world, Mary. Though I hope to 
procure a free cover for you, yet I dare not be sure, and so 
must husband my room. I am sorry for your account of 
the fever among your poor. Would I could suggest any 
thing ! I shall dine with one of our representatives to day ; 
but such subjects pass off : all say, ' Poor people, I am 
sorry,' and there it ends. My new Tales are not yet en- 
tirely ready, but do not want much that I can give them. 
I return all your good wishes, think of you, and with much 
regard, more than, indeed, belongs to a man of the world ! 
Still let me be permitted to address thee. — O ! my dear 
Mrs. L., this is so humble that I am afraid it is vain. Well ! 
write soon, then, and believe me to be most sincerely, and 

affectionately yours, 

" George Crabbe." 

I have introduced the above extract in this place, on 
account of the allusions it contains to my father's recep- 
tion in the gay world of London, — a reception of the 
nature of which his own family, until his journals came 

father ' the youth with the sour name and the sweet countenance ' 
— has become somewhat corpulent, that is the consequence of good 
humor as well as good living ; and why not partake of venison and 
claret with the moderation which such a mind will dictate ? The 
sentiment expressed in an old song has occurred to me, when too 
little allowance has been made for those in exalted situations : — 

' Deceit may dress in linen gown, 
And truth in diamonds shine.' 

From ray own contracted sphere I have had some opportunities of 
perceiving the virtues which, beaming from the zenith of wealth 
and rank, diffuse their influence to a wide extent." 



TROWBRIDGE. 249 

to light after his death, had never had an exact notion. 
When he returned home after one of these intoxicating 
visits to the metropolis, no one could trace the slightest 
difference in his manners or habits. He rarely spoke, 
even to his sons, of the brilliant circles in which he had 
been figuring ; and when some casual circumstance led 
to the passing mention of some splendid connection, 
there was such unaffected simplicity in the little vanity 
of his air, if I may so call it, that it only served to show 
that he did appreciate justly, what his natural good sense 
would not permit him to value above its real worth, or to 
dwell on so as to interfere with the usual duties and 
pursuits of his own station and long formed tastes. He 
resumed next morning, just as if nothing had happened, 
his visits among his parishioners, his care of parish busi- 
ness, his books and papers, and last, not least, his long 
rambles among the quarries near Trowbridge : for never, 
after my mother's death, did he return seriously to bota- 
ny, the favorite study of his earlier life. Fossils were 
thenceforth to him what weeds and flowers had been : 
he would spend hours on hours hammer in hand, not 
much pleased if any one interrupted him, rarely inviting 
either my brother or myself to accompany him, and, in 
short, solitary as far as he could manage to be so — 
unless when some little boy or girl of a friend's family 
pleaded hard to be allowed to attend him, and mimic his 
labors with a tiny hammer. To children he was ever 
the same. No word or look of harshness ever drove 
them from his side, " and I believe," says a friend who 
knew him well, " many a mother will bless, many days 
hence, the accident that threw her offspring into the 
way of his unlabored and paternal kindness and in- 
struction." 



250 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

To his proper ministerial duties he returned with 
equal zeal, '' To these," observes the same dear friend 
of his, " Mr. Crabbe ever attached great importance. 
He would put off a meditated journey rather than leave 
a poor parishioner who required his services; and, from 
his knowledge of human nature, he was able, in a re- 
markable manner, to throw himself into the circum- 
stances of those who needed his help — no sympathy 
was like his ; and no man, perhaps, had the inmost 
feelings of others more frequently laid open to his in- 
spection. He did not, however, enjoy the happiness 
which many pastors express in being able to benefit their 
flocks ; never was satisfied that he used the best means ; 
complained that men more imbued with a sense of the 
terrors of the Lord and less with his mercies, succeeded 
better ; and was glad to ask advice of all in whose judg- 
ment and experience he confided, Whatever might be 
the enjoyments of his study, he never allowed any of the 
numerous petitioners who called in the course of the day 
to be dismissed by a servant. He saw them all, and 
often gave them more pecuniary aid than he thought 
right ; and when the duties of a magistrate were after- 
wards added to those of a clergyman, these multiplied 
calls scarcely allowed him necessary relaxation." 

His then parishioner, Mr. Taylor, says on the same 
subject: — "His income amounted to about 800/. per 
annum, a large portion of which he spent in acts of 
charity. He was the common refuge of the unhappy. — 

' In every family 
Alike in every generation dear. 
The children's favorite, and the grandsire's friend, 
Tried, trusted, and beloved.' 



TROWBRIDGE. 251 

To him it was recommendation enough to be poor and 
wretched. He was extremely moderate in the exaction 
of tithes. When told of really poor defaulters, his reply 
was, ' Let it be — they cannot afford to pay so well as 
I can to want it — let it be.' His charity was so well 
known, that he was regularly visited by mendicants of 
all grades. He listened to their long stories of wants 
and woes, gave them a trifle, and then would say, ' God 
save you, — I can do no more for you;' but he would 
sometimes follow them, on reflection, and double or 
quadruple his gift. He has been known to dive into 
those obscure scenes of wretchedness and want, where 
wandering paupers lodge, in order to relieve them. He 
was, of course, often imposed upon ; which discovering, 
he merely said, 'God forgive them, — I do.' 

" He was anxious for the education of the humbler 
classes. The Sunday school was a favorite place of 
resort. When listening to the children, he observed, * I 
love to hear the little dears, and now old age has made 
me a fit companion for them.' He was much beloved by 
the scholars : on leaving the school he would give them 
a Bible, with suitable admonition. His health was gene- 
rally good, though he sometimes suffered from the tic 
douloureux. Not long before his death he met a poor 
old woman in the street, whom he had for some time 
missed at church, and asked her if she had been ill. 
' Lord bless you, Sir — no,' was the answer, * but it is of 
no use going to 7/our church, for I can't hear ; you do 
speak so low.' - — 'Well, well, my good old friend,' said 
he, slipping half a crown into her hand, ' you do quite 
right in going where you can hear.' " 



252 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

I may here add, that Mr. Crabbe was a subscriber 
to most of our great charitable institutions, and, as a 
member of the British and Foreign Bible Society, was 
prevailed upon to take the chair at the meetings in 
Trowbridge ; but his aversion to forms and ceremony, 
and to set speeches, made it a very painful station. 

Mr. Crabbe was now (1817 and 1818) busily engaged 
in finishing the last of his hitherto published worlcs — 
that which he originally entitled " Remembrances," but 
which, by Mr. Murray's advice, was produced as ** Tales 
of the Hall." His note-book was at this time ever with 
him in his walks, and he would every now and then lay 
down his hammer to insert a new or amended couplet. 
He fancied that autumn was, on the whole, the most fa- 
vorable season for him in the composition of poetry ; but 
there was something in the effect of a sudden fall of 
snow that appeared to stimulate him in a very extraordi- 
nary manner. It was during a great snow storm that, 
shut up in his room, he wrote almost currente calamo his 
Sir Eustace Grey. Latterly, he worked chiefly at night, 
after the family had all retired ; and in case any one 
should wish to be informed of such important particulars, 
he had generally by him a glass of very weak spirits and 
water, or negus ; and at all times indulged largely in 
snuff, which last habit somewhat interfered, as he grew 
old, with the effects of his even elaborate attention to 
personal cleanliness and neatness of dress. 

Would the reader like to follow my father into his 
library 1 — a scene of unparalleled confusion — windows 
rattling, paint in great request, books in every direction 
but the right — the table — but no, I cannot find terms 
to describe it, though the counterpart might be seen. 



TROWBRIDGE. 253 

perhaps, not one hundred miles from the study of the 
justly famed and beautiful rectory of Bremhill. Once, 
when we were staying at Trowbridge, in his absence for 
a few days at Bath, my eldest girl thought she should sur- 
prise and please him by putting every book in perfect 
order, making the best bound the most prominent ; but, 
on his return, thanking her for her good intention, he re- 
placed every volume in its former state ; " for," said he, 
" my dear, grandpapa understands his own confusion 
better than your order and neatness." 

The following is part of a letter to a female friend at 
Trowbridge, written on the 7th of May, 1819, when Mr. 
Crabbe was again in London : — 

*' I came to town with a lady who resides near W , 

and her husband is an agriculturist upon a large scale j that, 
I suppose, is the more consequential name for a farmer ; but 

Mr. is a reading and studying farmer, and upon another 

scale than ordinary persons of that class ; and Mrs. 

also reads, and knows what is read and talked of. She 
spoke of most of those of whom other people talk, and, 
among other things, asked me if I knew Crabbe.'' I did not 
act generously, for I evaded the question ; and then she 
told me that she was invited to meet him at dinner at Mr. 
West's, the painter. I thought it proper to put the lady 
right; which, however, w^as a matter of no importance: 
she went on in the same way ; but I, of necessity, with- 
drew a part of my attention. 

" If I could convey to you a good picture of the Academ- 
ical Dinner, I would try and paint one ; but I can only 
say, it was singular and grand. We dined in the great 
room, where the principal pictures were placed, which 
covered every part of it. Our number, I judge, about 180 
or 200: we had one royal duke, Sussex ; the duke of Wel- 
22 



254 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

lington ; we had four ambassadors (at whose table I was 
placed, with two English gentlemen, luckily) ; and many of 
our nobility. The dinner itself was like all very large 
dinners ; but the toasts, music, and speeches after we had 
dined, were in a high style. Between the healths were 
short pieces from a band of performers, who were paid for 
attendance ; and there was an imposing air of dignity 
during the whole time. I had the pleasure of meeting 
several friends ; but Lord Holland was prevented by a fit of 
the gout. I was not a httle surprised to see my picture by 
Phillips * ; for, if any, I expected the other ; — and they all 
said that not only the likeness was strong, but the picture 
good ; and I believe it is so, because Lord Holland is to 
have it copied, and placed with those in his library. I slept 
two nights at Holland House, and dined three times before 
Lady H. was weary of me, and even at last I was treated 

with marvellous kindness. I shall be lectured at ; but 

no matter : we must pay for the honors and emoluments 
which we gain in this world of struggles. I am going to- 
day to dine at the Thatched House, being elected a member 
of the Literary Society. When I have seen my brethren, 
and paid my subscription, I shall better judge whether the 
honor makes amends for the costs." 

In June, 1819, the " Tales of the Hall " were pub- 
lished by Mr. Murray ; who, for them and the remaining 
copyright of all my father's previous poems, gave the 
munificent sum of 3000/. The new work had, at least, 
as general approbation as any that had gone before it ; 
and was not the less liked for its opening views of a 
higher class of society than he had hitherto dealt much 
in. I shall avail myself of the permission to insert in 
this place a letter lately addressed to Mr. Murray, by 



M 



r. Crabbe had also sat for his portrait to Mr. Pickersgill. 



LETTER FROM MR. MOORE. 255 

Mr. Mooie, which, among other interesting particulars, 
gives a curious enough account of some transactions 
respecting the publication of the new work : — 

•' Sloperton Cottage, January 1, 1834. 

" My DEAR Mr. Murray, — Had I been aware that your 
time of publication was so near, the few scattered notices 
and recollections of Mr. Crabbe, which it is in my power 
to furnish for his son's memoir, should have been presented 
in a somewhat less crude and careless shape, than, in this 
hasty reply to your letter, I shall be able to give them. 

"It was in the year 1817, if I recollect right, that, during 
a visit of a few weeks to London, I first became acquainted 
with Mr. Crabbe ; and my opportunities of seeing him 
during that period, at Mr. Rogers's and Holland House, 
were frequent. The circumstance connected with him at 
that time, which most dwelt upon my memory, was one in 
which you yourself were concerned ; as it occurred in the 
course of the negotiation which led to your purchase of the 
copyright of his poems. Though to Crabbe himself, who 
had up to this period received but little for his writings, the 
liberal sum which you offered, namely, 3000/., appeared a 
mine of wealth, the two friends whom he had employed to 
negotiate for him, and who, both exquisite judges of Hterary 
merit, measured the marketable value of his works by their 
own admiration of them, thought that a bargain more ad- 
vantageous might be made, and (as you, probably, now for 
the first time learn,) applied to another eminent house on 
the subject. Taking but too just a measure of the state of 
public taste at that moment, the respectable publishers to 
whom I allude named, as the utmost which they could 
afford to give, but a third of the sum which you had the 
day before offered. In this predicament the situation of 
poor Crabbe was most critical. He had seen within his 
reach a prize far beyond his most sanguine hopes, and was 



256 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

now, by the over-sanguineness of friends, put in danger of 
losing- it. Change of mind, or a feeling of umbrage at this 
reference to other publishers, might, not unnaturally, it was 
feared, induce you to decline all further negotiation ; and 
that such was hkely to be the result there appeared every 
reason to apprehend, as a letter which Crabbe had addressed 
to you, saying that he had made up his mind to accept your 
offer, had not yet received any answer. 

" In this crisis it was that Mr. Rogers and myself, anxious 
to relieve our poor friend from his suspense, called upon 
you, as you must well remember, in Albemarle Street ; and 
seldom have I watched a countenance with more solicitude, 
or heard words that gave me much more pleasure, than 
when, on the subject being mentioned, you said, ' Oh, yes — 
I have heard from Mr. Crabbe, and look upon the matter as 
all settled.' I was rather pressed, I recollect, for time that 
morning, having an appointment on some business of my 
own ; but Mr. Rogers insisted that I should accompany 
him to Crabbe's lodgings, and enjoy the pleasure of seeing 
him relieved from his suspense. We found him sitting in 
his room, alone, and expecting the worst ; — but soon dis- 
sipated all his fears by the agreeable intelligence which we 
brought. 

" When he received the bills for 3000/., we earnestly 
advised that he should, without delay, deposit them in some 
safe hands; but no — he must 'take them with him to 
Trowbridge, and show them to his son John. They would 
hardly believe in his good luck, at home, if they did not see 
the bills.' On his way down to Trowbridge, a friend at 
Salisbury, at whose house he rested (Mr. Everett, the 
banker), seeing that he carried these bills loosely in his 
waistcoat pocket, requested to be allowed to take charge of 
them for him ; but with equal ill success. ' There was no 
fear,' he said, ' of his losing them, and he must show them 
to his son John.' 



LETTER FROM MR. MOORE. 257 

" It was during- the same visit of Mr. Crabbe to London, 
that we enjoyed a very agreeable day together, at Mr. 
Horace Twiss's ; — a day remarkable, not only for the pre- 
sence of this great poet, but for the amusing assemblage of 
other remarkable characters Avho were there collected ; the 
dinner guests being, besides the Dowager Countess of Cork, 
and the present Lord and Lady Clarendon, Mr. William 
Spencer, Kean the actor. Colonel Berkeley, and Lord 
Petersham. Between these two last mentioned gentlemen 
Mr. Crabbe got seated at dinner ; and though I was not 
near enough to hear distinctly their conversation, I could 
see that he was alternately edified and surprised by the 
information they were giving him. 

" In that same year, I had the good luck to be present 
with him at a dinner in celebration of the memory of Burns, 
where he was one of a large party (yourself among the 
number), whom I was the means of collecting for the occa- 
sion ; and who, by the way, subscribed liberally towards a 
monument to the Scottish bard, of which we have heard 
nothing ever since. Another public festival to which I 
accompanied him was the anniversary of the Wiltshire 
Society ; where, on his health being proposed from the 
Chair by Lord Lansdowne, he returned thanks in a short 
speech, simply, but collectedly, and with the manner of a 
man not deficient in the nerve necessary for such displays. 
In looking over an old newspaper report of that dinner, I 
find, in a speech by one of the guests, the following passage, 
which, more for its truth than its eloquence, I here venture 
to cite : ' Of Mr. Crabbe, the speaker would say, that the 
Musa severior which he worships has had no influence 
whatever on the kindly dispositions of his heart : but that, 
while, with the eye of a sage and a poet, he looks penetrat- 
ingly into the darker region of human nature, he stands 
surrounded by its most genial light himself,' 



258 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

" In the summer of the year 1824, I passed a few days in 
his company at Longleat, the noble seat of the Marquis of 
Bath ; and it was there, as we walked about those delicious 
gardens, that he, for the first time, told me of an unpub- 
lished poem which he had by him, entitled, as I think he 
then said, the ' Departure and the Return,' and the same, 
doubtless, which you are now about to give to the world. 
Among the visiters at Longleat, at that time, was the 
beautiful Madame * * *, a Genoese lady, whose knowledge 
and love of English literature rendered her admiration of 
Crabbe's genius doubly flattering. Nor was either the 
beauty or the praises of the fair Italian thrown away upon 
the venerable poet ; among whose many amiable attributes 
a due appreciation of the charms of female society was not 
the least conspicuous. There was, indeed, in his manner 
to women, a sweetness bordering rather too much upon 
what the French call doucereux, and I remember hearing 
Miss * * *, a lady known as the writer of some of the 
happiest jeux d'esj)rit of our day, say once of him, in allu- 
sion to this excessive courtesy — ' the cake is no doubt very 
good, but there is too much sugar to cut through in getting 
at it. 

" In reference to his early intercourse with Mr. Burke, 
Sir James Mackintosh had, more than once, said to me, 
' It is incumbent on you, Moore, who are Crabbe's neigh- 
bour, not to allow him to leave this world without putting 
on record, in some shape or other, all that he remembers of 
Burke.' On mentioning this to Mr. Rogers, when he came 
down to Bowood, one summer, to meet Mr. Crabbe, it was 
agreed between us that we should use our united efforts to 
sift him upon this subject, and endeavour to collect what- 
ever traces of Beaconsfield might still have remained in his 
memory. But, beyond a few vague generalities, we could 
extract nothing from him whatever, and it was plain that, 
in his memory at least, the conversational powers of the 



LETTER FROM MR. MOORE. 259 

great orator had left but little vestig-e. The range of sub- 
jects, indeed, in which Mr. Crabbe took any interest was, 
at all times of his life, very limited ; and, at the early period, 
when he became acquainted with Mr, Burke, when the 
power of poetry was but newly awakening within him, it 
may easily be conceived that whatever was unconnected 
with his own absorbing art, or even with his own peculiar 
province of that art, would leave but a feeble and transient 
impression upon his mind. 

" This indifference to most of the general topics, whether 
of learning or politics, which diversify the conversation of 
men of the world, Mr. Crabbe retained through life ; and in 
this peculiarity, I think, lay one of the causes of his com- 
parative inefficiency, as a member of society, — of that 
impression, so disproportionate to the real powers of his 
mind, which he produced in ordinary life. Another cause, 
no doubt, of the inferiority of his conversation to his 
writings is to be found in that fate which threw him, early 
in life, into a state of dependent intercourse with persons 
far superior to him in rank, but immeasurably beneath him 
in intellect. The courteous policy which would then lead 
him, to keep his conversation down to the level of those he 
lived with, afterwards grew into a habit which, in the com- 
merce of the world, did injustice to his great powers. 

" You have here all that, at this moment, occurs to me, 
in the Avay either of recollection or remark, on the subject 
of our able and venerated friend. The delightful day which 
Mr. Rogers and myself passed with him, at Sydenham, you 
have already, I believe, an account of from my friend, Mr. 
Campbell, who was our host on the occasion. Mr. Lock- 
hart has, I take for granted, communicated to you the 
amusing anecdote of Crabbe's interview with the two 
Scotch lairds — an anecdote which I cherish the more freshly 
and fondly in my memory, from its having been told me, 
with his own peculiar humor, by Sir Walter Scott, at Ab- 



260 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

botsford. I have, therefore, nothing further left than to 
assure you how much and truly I am, yours, 

"Thomas Moore." 

During his first and second visits to London, my father 
spent a good deal of his time beneath the hospitable roof 
of the late Samuel Hoare, Esquire, on Hampstead Heath. 
He owed his introduction to this respected family to his 
friends, Mr. Bowles, and the author of the delightful 
" Excursions in the West," Mr. Warner ; and though 
Mr. Hoare was an invalid, and little disposed to form 
new connections, he was so much gratified with Mr. 
Crabbe's manners and conversation, that their acquaint- 
ance soon grew into an affectionate and lasting inti- 
macy.* Mr. Crabbe, in subsequent years, made Hamp- 
stead his head-quarters on his spring visits, and only 
repaired from thence occasionally to the brilliant circles 
of the metropolis. Advancing age, failing health, the 
tortures of tic douloureux, with which he began to be 



* I quote what follows from a letter which I have recently been 
favored with from Mr. Bowles: — " Perhaps it might be stated in 
your memoir that, at Bath, I first introduced your father to the 
estimable family of the Hoares of Hampstead ; with whom, through 
his subsequent life, he was so intimate, and who contributed so 
much to the happiness of all his later days. I wish sincerely that 
any incident I could recollect might be such as would contribute 
to the illustration of his mind, and amiable, gentle, affectionate 
character ; but I never noted an expression or incident at the time, 
and only preserve an impression of his mild manner, his observa- 
tions, playful, but often acute, his high and steady principles of 
religious and moral obligation, his warm feelings against any thing 
which appeared harsh or unjust, and his undeviating and steady 
attachments." 



EDINBURGH, 1822. 261 

afflicted about 1820, and, I may add, the increasing 
earnestness of his devotional feelings, rendered him, in 
his closing years, less and less anxious to mingle much 
in the scenes of gaiety and fashion. 

The following passage of a letter which he received, 
in April, 1821, from his amiable correspondent at Balli- 
tore, descriptive of his reception at Trowbridge of her 
friend Leckey, is highly characteristic : — 

"When my feeble and simple efforts have obtained the 
approbation of the first moral poet of his time, is it sur- 
prising that I should be inflated thereby ? Yet thou art too 
benevolent to intend to turn the brain of a poor old woman, 
by commendation so valued, though thou hast practised on 
my credulity by a little deception ; and, from being always 
accustomed to matter of fact, I generally take what I hear 
in a literal sense. A gentlewoman once assured me, that 
the husband of her waiting-woman came to her house stark 
naked — naked as he was born. I said, ' O dear,' and re- 
flected with pity on the poor man's situation ; certainly 
thinking him mad, as maniacs often throw away their 
clothes. My neighbour went on : — ' His coat was so 
ragged ! his hat so shabby ! ' — and, to my surprise, I 
found the man dressed, though in a garb ill-befitting the 
spouse of a lady's maid. And thou madest me believe thou 
wert in good case, by saying, ' Am I not a great fat rector.'' ' 
We said, 'it was the exuberance of good-humor that caused 
increase of flesh : but a curate, with six hungry children, 
staggered our belief. Now we know thy son is thy cu- 
rate, and that thou art light and active in form, with 
looks irradiated, and accents modulated by genuine kindness 
of heart. Thus our friend John James Leckey describes 
thee ; for I have seen his long letter to his mother, on the 
subject of his visit, which, with his letter to me, has placed 



262 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

thee so before our view, that we all but see and hear thee, 
frequently going out and coming into the room, with a 
book in thy hand, and a smile and friendly expression on 
thy lips, — the benevolence which swam in thy eyes, and 
the cordial shake of both hands with which thou partedst 
with him, — and thou came out with him in the damp night, 
and sent thy servant with him to the inn, where he should 
not have lodged, had there been room for him in thy own 
house." 

It was during the last of my father's very active sea- 
sons in London (1822), that he had the satisfaction of 
meeting with Sir Walter Scott ; and the baronet, who 
was evidently much affected on seeing Mr. Crabbe, 
would not part with him until he had promised to visit 
him in Scotland the ensuing autumn. But I much re- 
gret that the invitation was accepted for that particular 
occasion ; for, as it happened, the late king fixed on the 
same time for his northern progress; and, instead of 
finding Sir Walter in his own mansion in the country, 
when Mr. Crabbe reached Scotland, in August, the 
family had all repaired to Edinburgh, to be present 
amidst a scene of bustle and festivity little favorable to 
the sort of intercourse with a congenial mind, to which 
he had looked forward with such pleasing anticipations. 
He took up his residence, however, in Sir Walter's house 
in North Castle Street, Edinburgh, and was treated by 
him and all his connections with the greatest kindness, 
respect, and attention ; and though the baronet's time 
was much occupied with the business of the royal visit, 
and he had to dine almost daily at his majesty's table, 
still my father had an opportunity not to be undervalued 
of seeing what was to him an aspect of society wholly 



EDINBURGH, 1822. 263 

new. The Highlanders, in particular, their language, 
their dress, and their manners were contemplated with 
exceeding interest. I am enabled, by the kindness of 
one of my father's female friends, to offer some extracts 
from a short Journal which he kept for her amusement 
during his stay in the northern metropolis : 

" Whilst it is fresh in my memory, I should describe the 
day which I have just passed, but I do not believe an accu- 
rate description to be possible. What avails it to say, for 
instance, that there met at the sumptuous dinner, in all the 
costume of the Highlanders, the great chief himself and 
officers of his company. This expresses not the singularity 
of appearance and manners — the peculiarities of men, all 
gentlemen, but remote from our society — leaders of clans — 
joyous company. Then we had Sir Walter Scott's national 
songs and ballads, exhibiting all the feelings of clanship. I 
thought it an honor that Glengarry even took notice of me, 
for there were those, and gentlemen, too, who considered 
themselves honored by following in his train. There were, 
also, Lord Errol, and the Macleod, and the Frazer, and the 
Gordon, and the Ferguson ; and I conversed at dinner with 
Lady Glengarry, and did almost believe myself a harper, or 
bard, rather — for harp I cannot strike — and Sir Walter 
was the life and soul of the whole. It was a splendid festiv- 
ity, and I felt I know not how much younger." 

The lady to whom he addressed the above journal 
says, — "A few more extracts will, perhaps, be inter- 
esting. It is not surprising that, under the guidance of 
Mr. Lockhart, Mr. Crabbe's walks should have been 
very interesting, and that all he saw should take an 
advantageous coloring from such society : " — 

" I went to the palace of Holyrood House,- and was much 
interested ; — the rooms, indeed, did not affect me, — the old 



254 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

tapestry was such as I had seen before, and I did not much 
care about the leather chairs, with three legs each, nor the 
furniture, except in one room — that where Queen Mary 
slept. The bed has a canopy very rich, but time-stained. 
We went into the little room where the Queen and Rizzio 
sat, when his murderers broke in and cut him down as he 
struggled to escape : they show certain stains on the floor ; 
and I see no reason why you should not believe them made 
by his blood, if you can. 

"Edinburgh is really a very interesting place, — to me 
very singular. How can I describe the view from the hill 
that overlooks the palace — the fine group of baildings which 
form the castle ; the bridges, uniting the two towns ; and 
the beautiful view of the Frith and its islands ? 

" But Sunday came, and the streets were forsaken ; and 
silence reigned over the whole city. London has a dimin- 
ished population on that day in her streets, but in Edin- 
burgh it is a total stagnation — a quiet that is in itself 
devout. 

" A long walk through divers streets, lanes, and alleys, 
up to the Old Town, makes me better acquainted with it ; 
a lane of cobblers struck me particularly ; and I could not 
but remark the civility and urbanity of the Scotch poor : 
they certainly exceed ours in politeness, arising, probably, 
from minds more generally cultivated. 

"This day I dined with Mr. Mackenzie, the Man of Feel- 
ing, as he is commonly called. He has not the manner you 
would expect from his works : but a rare sportsman, still 
enjoying the relation of a good day, though only the ghost 
of the pleasure remains. — What a discriminating and keen 
man is my friend ; and I am disposed to think highly of his 
son-in-law, Mr. Lockhart — of his heart — his understand- 
ing will not be disputed by any one," 

At the table of Mr. Lockhart, with whom he commonly 
dined, when Sir Walter was engaged to the King, he 



LETTER FROM MR. LOCKHART. 265 

one day sat down with three of the supposed writers or 
symposiasts of the inimitable " Noctes Ambrosianae ; " 
viz. his host himself, — the far-famed Professor Wilson, 
whom he termed, "that extraordinary man" — and the 
honest Shepherd of Ettrick, who amused him much by 
calling for a can of ale, while champagne and claret, and 
other choice wines were in full circulation. This must 
have been an evening cheaply purchased by a journey 
from Trowbridge. On the other hand, he was introduc- 
ed, by a friend from the south, to the '* Scottish Chiefs " 
of the opposite clan, though brothers in talent and fame, 
— the present Lord Advocate Jeffrey, Mr. John Archi- 
bald Murray, Professor Leslie, and some other distin- 
guished characters. 

Before he retired at night, he had generally the pleas- 
ure of half an hour's confidential conversation with Sir 
Walter, when he spoke occasionally of the Waverley 
Novels — though not as compositions of his own, for that 
was yet a secret — but without reserve upon all other 
subjects in which they had a common interest. These 
were evenings ! 

I am enabled to present a few more particulars of my 
father's visit to Edinburgh, by the kindness of Mr. Lock- 
hart, who has recently favored me with the following 
letter : — 

" London, Dec. 26, 1833, 
"Dear Sir, — I am sorry to tell you that Sir Walter 
Scott kept no diary during the time of your father's visit to 
Scotland, otherwise it would have given me pleasure to 
make extracts for the use of your memoirs. For myself, 
although it is true that, in consequence of Sir Walter's 
being constantly consulted about the details of every pro- 
23 



266 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

cession and festival of that busy fortnight, the pleasing task 
of showing to Mr. Crabbe the usual lions of Edinburgh fell 
principally to my share, I regret to say that my memory 
does not supply me with many traces of his conversation. 
The general impression, however, that he left on my mind 
was strong, and, I think, indelible : while all the mummeries 
and carousals of an interval, in which Edinburgh looked 
very unlike herself, have faded into a vague and dreamlike 
indistinctness, the image of your father, then first seen, but 
long before admired and revered in his works, remains as 
fresh as if the years that have now passed were but so many 
days. — His noble forehead, his bright beaming eye, without 
any thing of old age about it — though he was then, I pre- 
sume, above seventy — his sweet, and, I would say, inno- 
cent smile, and the calm mellow tones of his voice — all are 
reproduced the moment I open any page of his poetry : and 
how much better have I understood and enjoyed his poetry, 
since I was able thus to connect with it the hving presence 
of the man ! 

" The Hterary persons in company with whom I saw him 
the most frequently were Sir Walter and Henry Mackenzie ; 
and between two such thorough men of the world as they 
were, perhaps his apparent simplicity of look and manners 
struck one more than it might have done under different 
circumstances ; but all three harmonized admirably together 

Mr. Crabbe's avowed ignorance about Gaels, and clans, 

and tartans, and every thing that was at the moment upper- 
most in Sir Walter's thoughts, furnishing him with a wel- 
come apology for dilating on such topics with enthusiastic 
minuteness — while your father's countenance spoke the 
quiet delight he felt in opening his imagination to what was 
really a new world — and the venerable ' Man of Feeling,^ 
though a fiery Highlander himself at bottom, had the satis- 
faction of lying by and listening until some opportunity 
offered itself of hooking in, between the Unks, perhaps, of 



LETTER FROM MR. LOCKIIART. 267 

some grand chain of poetical imagery, some small comic or 
sarcastic trait, which Sir Walter caught up, played with, 
and, with that art so peculiarly his own, forced into the 
service of the very impression it seemed meant to disturb. 
One evening, at Mr. Mackenzie's own house, I particularly 
remember, among the nodes ccenceque Deum. 

" Mr. Crabbe had, I presume, read very little about Scot- 
land before that excursion. It appeared to me that he con- 
founded the Inchcolm of the Frith of Forth with the Icolm- 
kill of the Hebrides ; but John Kemble, I have heard, did 
the same. I believe he really never had known, until then, 
that a language radically distinct from the English, was still 
actually spoken within the island. And this recalls a scene 
of high merriment which occurred the very morning after 
his arrival. When he came down into the breakfast parlor. 
Sir Walter had not yet appeared there ; and Mr. Crabbe 
had before him two or three portly personages all in the full 
Highland garb. These gentlemen, arrayed in a costume so 
novel, were talking in a language which he did not under- 
stand ; so he never doubted that they were foreigners. The 
Celts, on their part, conceived Mr. Crabbe, dressed as he 
was in rather an old-fashioned style of clerical propriety, 
with buckles in his shoes for instance, to be some learned 
abbe, who had come on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Wa- 
verley ; and the result was, that when, a little afterwards. 
Sir Walter and his family entered the room, they found your 
father and these worthy lairds, hammering away, with pain 
and labor, to make themselves mutually understood, in 
most execrable French. Great was the relief, and potent 
the laughter, when the host interrupted their colloquy with 
his plain English ' Good-morning.' 

" It surprised me, on taking Mr. Crabbe to see the house 
of Allan Ramsay on the Castle Hill, to find that he had 
never heard of Allan's name ; or, at all events, was unac- 
quainted with his works. The same evening, however, he 



268 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

perused ' The Gentle Shepherd,' and he told me next morn- 
ing, that he had been pleased with it, but added, ' there is a 
long step between Ramsay and Burns.' He then made Sir 
Walter read and interpret some of old Dunbar to him ; and 
said, ' I see that the Ayrshire bard had one giant before 
him.' 

" Mr. Crabbe seemed to admire, like other people, the 
grand natural scenery about Edinburgh ; but w^hen I walked 
with him to the Salisbury Craigs, where the superb view 
had then a lively foreground of tents and batteries, he ap- 
peared to be more interested with the stratification of the 
rocks about us, than with any other feature in the land- 
scape. As to the city itself, he said he soon got wearied of 
the New Town, but could amuse himself for ever in the 
Old one. He was more than once detected rambling after 
nightfall by himself, among some of the cJjscurest wynds 
and closes ; and Sir Walter, fearing that, at a time of such 
confusion, he might get into some scene of trouble, took the 
precaution of desiring a friendly caddie (see Humphry 
Clinker), from the corner of Castle Street, to follow him 
the next time he went out alone in the evening. 

" Mr. Crabbe repeated his visits several times to the 
Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, and expressed great admira- 
tion of the manner in which the patients were treated. He 
also examined pretty minutely the interior of the Bedlam. 
I went with him both to the Castle and Queen Mary's 
apartment in Holyrood House ; but he did not appear to 
care much about either. I remember, however, that when 
the old dame who showed us Darnley's armor and boots 
complained of the impudence, as she called it, of a preceding 
visiter, who had discovered these articles to be relics of a 
much later age, your father warmly entered into her feel- 
ings ; and said, as we came away, ' this pedantic puppyism 
was inhumane.^ 



LETTER FROM MR. LOCKHART. 269 

" The first Sunday he was in Edinburgh, my wife and 
her sister carried him to hear service in St. George's church, 
where the most popular of the Presbyterian clergy, the late 
Dr. Andrew Thomson, then officiated. But he was little 
gratified either with the aspect of the church, which is large 
without grandeur, or the style of the ceremonial, which he 
said was bald and bad, or the eloquence of the sermon, 
which, however, might not be preached by Dr. Thomson 
himself. Next Sunday he went to the Episcopalian chapel, 
where Sir Walter Scott's family were in the habit of attend- 
ing. He said, however, in walking along the streets that 
day, ' this unusual decorum says not a little for the Scotch 
system : the silence of these well-dressed crowds is really 
grand.' King George the Fourth made the same remark. 

" Mr. Crabbe entered so far into the feelings of his host, 
and of the occasion, as to write a set of verses on the royal 
visit to Edinburgh ; they were printed along with many 
others, but I have no copy of the collection. He also at- 
tended one of the king's levees at Holyrood, where his 
majesty appeared at once to recognise his person, and re- 
ceived him with attention. 

" All my friends who had formed acquaintance with Mr. 
Crabbe on this occasion appeared ever afterwards to remem- 
ber him with the same feeling of affectionate respect. Sir 
Walter Scott and his family parted with him most reluct- 
antly. He had been quite domesticated under their roof, 
and treated the young people very much as if they had been 
his own. His unsophisticated, simple, and kind address put 
every body at ease with him ; and, indeed, one would have 
been too apt to forget what lurked beneath that good- 
humored, unpretending aspect, but that every now and then 
he uttered some brief pithy remark, which showed how 
narrowly he had been scrutinizing into whatever might be 
said or done before him, and called us to remember, with 
some awe, that we were in the presence of the author of 
' The Borough.' 

23* 



270 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

" I recollect that he used to have a lamp and writing 
materials placed by his bedside every night ; and when Lady 
Scott told him she wondered the day was not enough for 
authorship, he answered, ' Dear Lady, I should have lost 
man}^ a good hit, had I not set down, at once, things that 
occurred to me in my dreams.' 

" I never could help regretting very strongly that Mr. 
Crabbe did not find Sir Walter at Abbotsford, as he had 
expected to do. The fortnight he passed in Edinburgh 
was one scene of noise, glare, and bustle — reviews, levees, 
banquets, and balls — and no person could either see or hear 
so much of him as might, under other circumstances, have 
been looked for. Sir Walter himself, I think, took only one 
walk with Mr. Crabbe : it was to the ruins of St. Anthony's 
Chapel, at the foot of Arthur's Seat, which your father 
wished to see, as connected with part of the Heart of Mid- 
Lothian. I had the pleasure to accompany them on this 
occasion ; and it was the only one on which I heard your 
father enter into any details of his own personal history. 
He told us, that during many months when he was toiling 
in early life in London, he hardly ever tasted butcher's 
meatj except on a Sunday, when he dined usually with a 
tradesman's family, and thought their leg of mutton, baked 
in the pan, the perfection of luxury. The tears stood in 
his eyes while he talked of Burke's kindness to him in his 
distress ; and I remember he said, ' The night after I 
delivered my letter at his door, I was in such a state of 
agitation, that I walked Westminister Bridge backwards and 
forwards until day-light.' Believe me, dear Sir, your very 
faithful servant, 

" J. G. LOCKHART." 

Shortly after his return from Scotland, Mr. Crabbe 
had a peculiarly severe fit of the tic douloureux, to 
which he thus alludes, in one of his letters to Mrs. Lead- 
beater ; — 



TROWBRIDGE. 271 

" I am visited by a painful disorder, which, though it 
leaves me many intervals of ease and comfort, yet compels 
me to postpone much of what may be called the business of 
life 3 and thus, having many things to do, and a compara- 
tively short time in which they must be done, I too often 
defer what would be in itself a pleasing duty, and apply 
myself to what affords a satisfaction, only because it has 
been fulfilled." 

It was this affliction which prevented his complying 
with a kind invitation to spend the Christmas of 1822 
at Belvoir ; on which occasion he received the following 
letter, which I select as indicating the esteem in which 
he was held, after his removal from Leicestershire, by 
the whole of the family of Rutland : — 

" Belvoir Castle, Dec. 16, 1822. 
"Dear Sir, — I was much disappointed to find, from 
your letter of the 11th instant, that you have been obliged 
once more to abandon (for the present) the idea of a visit 
to this place. I feel the more regret at this circumstance, 
from the cause which you have to decline exposure to the 
cold weather of winter, and the fatigue of travelling. You 
have no two friends who wish you more cordially well than 
the Duchess and myself; and I can truly say that, when- 
ever it may be convenient and pleasant to you to visit the 
castle, a hearty and sincere welcome will await you. I am, 
dear Sir, &c. 

" Rutland."* 



^ I extract what follows from a letter with which his Grace 
lionored me after my father's death : — " It is indeed true, that my 
lamented Duchess vied with my.self in sincere admiration of his 
talents and virtues, and in warm and hearty esteem for your 
father." 



272 



LIFE OF CRABBE, 



About the same time, having received an intelligible 
scrawl from my eldest girl, Caroline, who was then in her 
fourth year, he addressed this letter to the child. Who 
will require to be told that his coming to Pucklechurch 
was always looked forward to by the young people as a 
vision of joy ? — 

" Trowbridge, 24th Dec. 1822. 
"My dear Carry, — Your very pretty letter gave me 
a great deal of pleasure ; and I choose this, which is my 
birthday, that in it I may return you my best thanks for 
your kind remembrance of me j and I will keep your letter 
laid up in my new Bible, where I shall often see it ; and 
then I shall say, ' This is from my dear little girl at Puckle- 
church.' My face is not so painful as it was when I wrote 
to papa; and I w^ould set out immediately, to see you all, 
with great pleasure, but I am forced, against my will, to 
remain at home this week, by duty ; and that, you know, I 
must attend to : and then, there is an engagement to a 
family in this place, Waldron by name, Avho have friends in 
Salisbury, and among them a gentleman, who, though he is 
young, will have grandpapa's company, and grandpapa, 
being a very old man, takes this for a compliment, and has 
given his promise, though he is vexed about it, that he will 
be in Trowbridge at that time ; and so he dares not yet fix the 
day for his visit to his dear Caroline, and her good mamma, 
and papa, and her little brothers ; but he is afraid that papa 
will not be pleased with this uncertainty ; yet I will write 
to papa the very first hour in which I can say when I shall 
, be free to go after my own pleasure ; and I do hope that if 
it cannot be in the next week, it will be early in the follow- 
ing. And so, my dear, you will say to papa and mamma, 
' You must forgive poor grandpapa, because he is so puz- 
zled that he does not know what he can do, and so vexed be- 
side, that he cannot do as his wishes and his affection would 



TROWBRIDGE. 273 

lead him ; and you know, dear papa and mamma, that he 
grows to be a very old man, and does not know how to get 
out of these dilficulties, but I am sure that he loves to come 
to uSj and will be here as soon as ever he can.' I hope, my 
dear Carry, that Master Davidson is well after the waltz, 
and his lady with whom he danced : I should have liked 
very much to have seen them. I gave your love to uncle 
John, and will to your other uncles when I see them : I 
dare say they all love you ; for Httle good little girls, like 
my Carry, are much beloved. Pray give my kind respects 
to Miss Joyces. You are well off in having such ladies to 
take so much pains with you ; and you improve very pret- 
tily under their care. I have written a very long letter to 
my Carry ; and I think we suit each other, and shall make 
fit correspondents ; that is, writers of letters, Caroline to 
grandpapa, and grandpapa to Caroline. God bless my 
dear little girl, I desire earnestly to see you, and am your 

very affectionate 

" Grandpapa." 

I close this chapter with a fragment of a letter from 
his friend, Mr. Norris Clark, of Trowbridge : — 

" I wish it was in my power to furnish you with any 
thing worth relating of your late father. The fault is in 
my memory ; for, i^ I could recollect them, hundreds of his 
conversations would be as valuable as Johnson's ; though 
he never talked for eflect. I will mention two which 
impressed me, as being the first and last I had with him. 
When I called on him, soon after his arrival, I remarked, 
that his house and garden were pleasant and secluded : he 
repUed, that he preferred walking in the streets, and observ- 
ing the faces of the passers-by, to the finest natural scene. 
The last time I spoke to him was at our amateur concert : 
after it concluded, which was with the overture to Freys- 
chutz, he said, he used to prefer the simple ballad, but he 



274 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

now, by often hearing more scientific music, began to like 
it best. I have no doubt he had a most critical musical ear •, 
as every one must have perceived who heard hun read. I 
never heard more beautifully correct recitative." 



TROWBRIDGE. 275 

CHAPTER X. 
1823 — 1632. 

THE CLOSING YEARS OF MR. CRABBE'S LIFE. ANNUAL 

EXCURSIONS. DOMESTIC HABITS. VISITS TO PUCKLE- 

CHURCH. HIS LAST TOUR TO CLIFTON, BRISTOL, ETC. 

•— T-HIS ILLNESS AND DEATH. HIS FUNERAL. 

It now remains to sum up this narrative with a few 
particulars respecting the closing years of Mr. Crabbe's 
henceforth retired life. Though he went every year to 
Mr. Hoare's, at Hampstead (the death of the head of 
that family having rather increased than diminished his 
attachment for its other members), and each season ac- 
companied them on some healthful excursion to the Isle 
of Wight, Hastings, Ilfracombe, or Clifton ; and though, 
in their company, he saw occasionally not a little of 
persons peculiarly interesting to the public, as well as 
dear to himself, — as, for example, Mr. Wilberforce, Mrs. 
Joanna Baillie, Miss Edgevvorth, and Mrs. Siddons, — 
and though, in his passings through town, he generally 
dined with Mr. Rogers, Lord Holland, and Mr. Murray, 
and there met, from time to time, his great brothers in 
art, Wordsworth and Southey, — for both of whom he 
felt a cordial respect and affection, — still, his journals, 
in those latter years, are so briefly drawn up, that, by 
printing them, I should be giving little more than a list 
of names. While, at home, he seldom visited much 
beyond the limits of his parish — the houses of Mr. 
Waldron and Mr. Norris Clark beinor his more familiar 



276 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

haunts ; and in his own study he continued, unless when 
interrupted by his painful disorder, much of the habits 
and occupations which have already been described, 
comprising poetry, and various theological essays, besides 
sermons ; of all of which specimens may hereafter be 
made public. The manuscript volumes he left behind 
him at his death, not including those of the rough copies 
of his published works, amount in number to twenty-one. 
The gradual decline of his health, but unshaken vigor of 
his understanding, will be, perhaps, sufficiently illus- 
trated by the following extracts from his note-books, and 
his own letters to his friends and family : — 

" AUborough, October, 1823. 
" Thus once again, my native place, I come 
Thee to salute — my earliest, latest home : 
Much are we altered both, but I behold 
In thee a youth renewed — whilst I am old. 
The woiks of man fioni dying we may save. 
But man himself moves onward to the grave." 

To Mrs. Leadheatcr. 

" Trowbridge, June, 1824. 
" I must go to town, and there be stimulated by conver- 
sations on the subjects of authorships, and all that relates 
to the business of the press. I find, too, that I can dedicate 
more time to this employment in London than in this seat 
of business, where every body comes at their own time ; 
and, having driven the mind from its purposes, leave a man 
to waste no small portion of it in miscellaneous reading, and 
other amusement, such as nursing and construing the inci- 
pient meanings that come and go in the face of an infant. 
My grand-daughter and I begin to be companions ; and the 
seven months and the seventy years accord very nicely, and 
will do so, probably (the parties living), for a year or two 



B E C C L E S . 277 

to come ; when, the man becoming weaker and the child 
stronger, there will come an inequality to disturb the friend- 
ship. 

" I think something- more than two years have passed, 
since the disease, known by a very formidable name, which 
I have never consented to adopt, attacked me. It came like 
momentary shocks of a grievous toothache ; and, indeed, I 
was imprudent enough to have one tooth extracted which 
appeared to be most affected ; but the loss of this guiltless 
and useful tooth had not one beneficial consequence. For 
many months the pain came, sometimes on a slight touch, 
as the application of a towel or a razor, and it sometimes 
came without any apparent cause, and certainly was at one 
time alarming, more especially when I heard of operations, 
as cutting down and scraping the bone, &c. ; but these 
failing, and a mode of treating the disease being found,* I 
lost my fears, and took blue pills and medicines of like kind 
for a long season, and with good success." 

To a Lady at Trowbridge. 

" Beccles, May 10, 1825. 
"A letter from my son to-day, gives me pain, by its 
account of your illness : I had hope of better information ; 
and though he writes that there is amendment, yet he con- 
fesses it is slow, and your disorder is painful too. That 
men of free lives, and in habits of intemperance, should be 
ill, is to be expected ; but we are surprised, as well as 
grieved, when frequent attacks of this kind are the lot of the 
temperate, the young, and the careful ; still, it is the will of 
Him who afflicts not his creatures without a cause, which 
we may not perceive, but must believe ; for he is all wisdom 
and goodness, and sees the way to our final happiness, when 

* The kind and skilful physician on whose advice my father 
relied was Dr. Kerrison, of New Burlington Street, 

24 



278 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

we cannot. In all kinds of affliction, the Christian is con- 
soled by the confiding hope, that such trials, well borne, 
will work for glory and happiness, as they work in us 
patience and resignation. In our pains and weakness we 
approach nearer, and learn to make our supplications to a 
merciful Being, as to a parent, who, if he doth not with- 
draw the evil from us, yet gives us strength to endure and 
be thankful. — I grant there is much that we cannot know 
nor comprehend in the government of this world ; but we 
know that our duty is to submit, because there is enough 
we can see to make us rest in hope and comfort, though 
there be much that we cannot understand. We know not 
why one in the prime of hfe should suffer long ; and, while 
suffering, should hear of threescore persons, of every age 
and station, and with minds some devoted to their God, and 
others to this world altogether, all in one dreadful moment 
to be sunk in the ocean, and the stillness of death to sur- 
round them. But though this and a number of other things 
are mysteries to us, they are all open to Him from whom 
nothing can be hidden. Let us then, my dear Miss W. 
have confidence in this, that we are tried, and disciplined, 
and prepared — for another state of being ; and let not our 
ignorance in what is not revealed, prevent our belief in 
what is. ' I do not know,' is a very good answer to most 
of the questions put to us by those who wish for help to 
unbelief. But why all this ? will you ask : first, because I 
love you very much, and then you will recollect that I have 
had, of late, very strong admonition to be serious ; for 
though the pain of itself be not dangerous, yet the weakness 
it brought on, and still brings, persuades me that not many 
such strokes are needed to demolish a frame which has been 
seventy years moving, and not always regulated with due 
caution : but I will not fatigue you any more now, nor, I 
hope, at any future time. I trust, my dear friend, to see 
you in good health, cheerful and happy, relying entirely on 



B E C C L E S . 279 

that great and good Being, whose ways are not ours, 
neither can we comprehend them ; and our very ignorance 
should teach us perfect reliance on his wisdom and good- 
ness. I had a troubled night, and am thinking of the time 
when you will kindly send, and sometimes call, to hear, 
' how Mr. Crabbe does to-day, and how he rested ; ' for 
though we must all take the way of our friend departed, yet 
mine is the natural first turn ; and you will not wonder that 
restless nights put me in mind of this." 

A friend having for the first time seen the *' Rejected 
Addresses/' had written with some soreness of the parody 
on my father's poetry ; he thus answers : — 

" You were more feeling than I was, when you read the 
excellent parodies of the young men who wrote the ' Rejected 
Addresses.' There is a Httle ill-nature — and, I take the 
liberty of addig, unndeserved ill-nature — in their prefatory 
address ; but in their versification, they have done me 
admirably. They are extraordinary men ; but it is easier 
to imitate style, than to furnish matter." * 

* In the new edition of the " Rejected Addresses," I find a note, 
part of which is as follows : — " The writer's first interview with 
the poet Crabbe, who may be designated Pope in v/orsted stockings, 
took place at William Spencer's villa at Petersham, close to what 
that gentleman called his gold-fish pond, though it was scarcely 
three feet in diameter, throwing up a. jet d'eau like a thread. The 
venerable bard, seizing both the hands of his satirist, exclaimed, 
with a good-humored laugh, 'Ah! my old enemy, how do you 
do ? ' In the course of conversation, he expressed great astonish- 
ment at his popularity in London ; adding, ' In my own village 
they think nothing of me.' The subject happening to be the in- 
roads of time upon beauty, the writer quoted the following lines : — 

' Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, 
Wlien Time began to play his usual tricks : 



280 LIFE OF CKABBE, 

In June 1825, he thus writes from Mr, Hoare's villa 
at Hampstead : — 

" Hampstead, June, 1825. 
" My time passes I cannot tell how pleasantly, when the 
pain leaves me. To-day I read one of my long stories to 
my friends, and Mrs. Joanna Baillie and her sister. It was 
a task ; but they encouraged me, and were, or seemed, 
gratified. I rhyme at Hampstead with a great deal of 
facility, for nothing interrupts me but kind calls to some- 
thing pleasant ; and though all this makes parting painful, 
it will, I hope, make me resolute to enter upon my duties 
diligently when I return. — I am too much indulged. Except 
a return of pain, and that not severe, I have good health ; 
and if my walks are not so long, they are more frequent. 
I have seen many things and many people ; have seen Mr. 
Southey and Mr. Wordsworth ; have been some days with 
Mr. Rogers, and at last have been at the Athenaeum, and 
purpose to visit the Royal Institution ; and have been to 
Richmond in a steam-boat ; seen, also, the picture galleries, 
and some other exhibitions : but I passed one Sunday in 
London with discontent, doing no duty myself, nor listening 
to another ; and I hope my uneasiness proceeded not merely 
from breaking a habit. We had a dinner social and pleasant, 
if the hours before it had been rightly spent : but I would 

My locks, once comely in a virgin's sight, 

Locks of pure brown, now felt the encroaching white ; 

Gradual each day I liked my horses less. 

My dinner more — I learnt to play at chess.' 

* That 's very good ! ' cried the bard ; ' whose is it ? ' — ' Your own.' 
— 'Indeed! hah! well, I had quite forgotten it.'" The writer 
proceeds to insinuate, that this was a piece of affectation on the 
part of my father. If Mr. Smith had written as many verses, and 
lived as long, as Mr. Crabbe, he would, I fancy, have been inca- 
pable of expressing such a suspicion. 



TROWBRIDGE. 281 

not willingly pass another Sunday in the same manner. I 
have my home with my friends here (Mrs. Hoare's), and 
exchange it with reluctance for the Hummums occasionally. 
Such is the state of the garden here, in which I walk and 
read, that, in a morning like this, the smell of the flowers is 
fragrant beyond any thing I ever perceived before. It is 
what I can suppose may be in Persia, or other oriental 
countries — a Paradisiacal sweetness. 

" I am told that I or my verses, or perhaps both, have 
abuse in a book of Mr. Colburn's publishing, called ' The 
Spirit of the Times.' I believe I felt something indignant : 
but my engraved seal dropped out of the socket and was 
lost, and I perceived this vexed me much more than the 
« spirit' of Mr. Hazlitt." 

" Trowbridge, Feb. 3, 1826. 

" Your letter, my dear Mrs. Leadbeater, was dated the 
9th of the tenth month of last year ; just at a time when I 
was confined in the house of friends, most attentive to me 
during the progress and termination of a painful disease to 
which I had been long subject, though I was not at any 
time before so suddenly and so alarmingly attacked. I had 
parted from my son, his wife and child, about ten days 
before, and judged myself to be in possession of health, 
strength, and good spirits fitted for my journey — one about 
200 miles from this place, and in which I had pleased myself 
with the anticipation of meeting with relatives dear to me, 
and many of the friends of my earlier days. I reached Lon- 
don with no other symptom of illness than fatigue ; but was 
indisposed on the second night, and glad to proceed to 
Hampstead on the third day, where I found my accustomed 
welcome in the house of two ladies, who have been long 
endeared to me by acts of unceasing kindness, which I can 
much better feel than describe. On the second evening 
after my arrival. Miss Hoare and I went to the place of 
worship to which she is accustomed ; where, just as the 
24* 



282 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

service of the day terminated, a sudden and overpowering 
attack of the disease to v^hich I allude was the commence- 
ment of an illness which was troublesome to my friends 
about three weeks, but, as the pain gradually passed away, 
was scarcely to be esteemed as a trial to me, or to the 
resignation and patience which pain should give birth to. 
I am now — let me be thankful — in a great measure freed 
from pain, and have probably, that degree of health, and 
even exertion, which, at my age, is a blessing rather to be 
desired than expected ; the allotted threescore and ten has 
passed over me, and I am now in my seventy-second year ! 
thankful, I hope, for much that I have, and, among other 
things, for the friendship of some very estimable beings. 
I feel the heaviness and languor of time, and that even in 
our social visits at this season. I cannot enjoy festivity ; 
with friends long known I can be easy, and even cheerful, — 
but the pain of exertion, which I think it a duty to make, 
has its influence over me, and I wonder — be assured that 
I am perfectly sincere in this — I wonder when young 
people — and there are such — seem to desire that I should 
associate with them," 

" Pucklechurch, 1826. 
•' Caroline, now six years old, reads incessantly and 
insatiably. She has been travelling with John Bunyan's 
' Pilgrim,' and enjoyed a pleasure never, perhaps, to be 
repeated. The veil of rehgious mystery, that so beautifully 
covers the outward and visible adventures, is quite enchant- 
ing. The dear child was caught reading by her sleeping 
maid, at five o'clock this morning, impatient — 'tis our 
nature — to end her pleasure." 

" Trowbridge, 1827. 
" I often find such difficulties in visiting the sick, that I 
am at a loss what thoughts to suggest to them, or to enter- 
tain of them. Home is not better (to the aged), but it is 



TROWBRIDGE. 283 

better loved and more desired ; for in other places we cannot 
indulge our humors and tastes so well, nor so well comply 
with those of other people. 

" In the last week was our fair ; and I am glad that quiet 
is restored. When I saw four or five human beings, with 
painted faces and crazy dresses and gestures, trying to en- 
gage and entice the idle spectators to enter their show- 
house, I felt the degradation; for it seemed like man reduced 
from his natural rank in the creation : and yet, probably, 
they would say, — ' What can we do r We were brought 
up to it, and we must eat.' 

" I think the state of an old but hale man is the most 
comfortable and least painful of any stage in hfe ; but it is 
always liable to infirmities : and this is as it should be. It 
would not be well to be in love with life when so little of it 
remains." 

The two following extracts are from notes written to 
the same kind friend, on his birthday of 1827, and on 
that of 1828 : — 

"Parsonage, Dec. 24, 1827. — There can be only one 
reason for declining your obhging invitation ; and that is, 
the grievous stupidity that grows upon me daily. I have 
read of a country where they reckon all men after a certain 
period of Hfe to be no longer fitted for companionship in 
business or pleasure, and so they put the poor useless 
beings out of their way. I think I am beyond that time ; 
but as we have no such prudent custom, I will not refuse 
myself the good you so kindly offer, and you will make due 
allowance for the stupidity aforesaid." 

" Parsonage, Dec. 24, 1828. — This has been a very busy 
day with me. My kind neighbours have found out that the 
24th of this month is my birthday, and I have not only had 
music in the evening, but small requests all the day long, for 
* Sure the minister will not mind giving us a trifle on his 



284 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

birthday ' — and so they have done me the honor of making 
a trial ; as if it were a joyful thing for a man to enter into 
his seventy-sixth year ; and I grant it ought to be. But 

your time is precious, and I must not detain you. Mr. , 

I hear has been with you to-day. I have never yet been 
able to fulfil my engagements. He puzzles me. It is 
strange, I can but think, for a man of sense and reflection 
openly to avow disbelief of a religion that has satisfied the 
wisest, converted the most wicked, and consoled the most 
afflicted of our fellow creatures. He says he is happy ; and 
it may be so. I am sure I should not, having the same 
opinions. Certainly, if we wait till all doubts be cleared 
away, we shall die doubting. I ought to ask your pardon, 
and I do. How I came to be in a grave humor, I know 
not ; for I have been dancing with my little girl to all kinds 
of tunes, and, I dare say, with all kinds of steps, such as old 
men and children are likely to exhibit." 

In October, 1829, he thus writes to the present biog- 
rapher : — 

" I am in truth not well. It is not pain, nor can I tell 
what it is. Probably when you reach the year I am arrived 
at, you will want no explanation. But I should be a burden 
to you : the dear girls and boys would not know what to 
make of a grandfather who could not romp nor play with 
them." 

In January, 1830, he thus addresses his granddaugh- 
ter : — 

^ You and I both love reading, and it is well for me that I 
do ; but at your time reading is but one employment, whereas 
with me it is almost all. And yet I often ask myself, at the 
end of my volumes, — Well ! what am I the wiser, what 
the better, for this ? Reading for amusement only, and, as 
it is said, merely to kill time, is not the satisfaction of a rea- 



TROWBRIDGE. 285 

sonable being. At your age, my dear Caroline, I read 
every book which I could procure. Now, I should wish to 
procure only such as are worth reading ; but I confess I 
am frequently disappointed." 

Dining one day with a party at Pucklechurch, about 
this period, some one was mentioning a professor of gas- 
tronomy, who looked to the time when his art should 
get to such perfection as to keep people alive for ever. 
My father said, most emphatically, " God forbid ! " He 
had begun to feel that old age, even without any very 
severe disease, is not a state to hold tenaciously. To- 
wards the latter end of the last year he had found a 
perceptible and general decline of the vital powers, 
without any specific complaint of any consequence ; and 
though there were intervals in which he felt peculiarly 
renovated, yet, from the autumn of 1828, he could trace 
a marked, though still very gradual, change ; or, as he 
himself called it, a breaking up of the constitution ; in 
which, however, the mind partook not, for there was no 
symptom of mental decay, except, and that only slightly 
and partially, in the memory. 

But the most remarkable characteristic of his decline 
was the unabated warmth of his affections. In general, 
the feelings of old age are somewhat weakened and con- 
centrated under the sense of a precarious life, and of 
personal deprivation ; but his interest in the welfare of 
others, his sympathy with the sufferings or happiness of 
his friends, and even in the amusements of children, 
continued to the last as vivid as ever : and he thought, 
spoke, and wrote of his departure with such fortitude 
and cheerful resignation, that I have not that pain in 
recording his latter days, which, under other circumstan- 



286 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

ces, would have made the termination of this memoir a 
task scarcely to be endured. 

A most valued friend of my father describes his decline 
in terms so affectionate, beautiful, and original, that I 
have obtained her permission to add this to other pas- 
sages from the same pen : — 

" Mr. Crabbe was so much beloved, that the approaches of 
age were watched by his friends with jealousy, as an enemy 
undermining their own happiness ; and the privations in- 
flicted upon him by its infirmities were peculiarly distress- 
ing. There is sometimes an apathy attending advanced 
life, which makes its accompanying changes less perceptible ; 
but when the dull ear, and dim eye, and lingering step, and 
trembling hand, are for ever interfering with the enjoyments 
of a man, who would otherwise delight in the society of the 
young and active — such a contrast between the body and 
mind can only be borne with fortitude by those who look 
hopefully for youth renewed in another state of existence. 
' It cannot be supposed,' says the Roman orator, ' that Na- 
ture, after having widely distributed to all the preceding 
periods of life their peculiar and proper enjoyments, should 
have neglected, like an indolent poet, the last act of the 
human drama, and left it destitute of suitable advantages : ' 
— and yet it would be difficult to point out in what these 
consist. On the contrary. Nature discovers her destitute 
state, and manifests it in peevishness and repining, unless a 
higher principle than iS^afwre takes possession of the mind, 
and makes it sensible, that, ' though the outward man per- 
ish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day.' It was by 
this principle that Mr. Crabbe was actuated ; and he at times 
gave such proofs of his confidence in the promises of the 
Gospel, that the spot on which he expressed these hopes 
with peculiar energy is now looked upon by the friend who 
conversed with him as holy ground. But he rarely spoke 



TROWBRIDGE. 



287 



thus ; for he had such an humble spirit, so much fear of 
conveying the impression that he beUeved himself accepted, 
that the extent of these enjoyments was known to few. 
Thus, however, the privations of age and frequent suffering 
were converted into blessings, and he acknowledged their 
advantage in weaning him from the world. Considering 
life as the season of discipline, and looking back to the mer- 
ciful restraints, and also acknowledging the many encour- 
agements, which he had received from an over-ruling Provi- 
dence, he was not impatient under the most troublesome 
and vexatious infirmity, or over-anxious to escape that evil, 
which, if rightly received, might add to the evidence and 
security of the happiness hereafter. He had a notion, per- 
haps somewhat whimsical, that we shall be gainers in a 
future state by the cultivation of the intellect, and always 
affixed a sense of this nature also to the more important 
meaning of the word ' talents ' in the parable : and this 
stimulus doubtless increased his avidity for knowledge, at a 
period when such study was of little use besides the amuse- 
ment of the present hour." 

Preparing to visit Hastings, in September, 1830, with 
his friends from Hampstead Heath, he says : — 

" I feel, in looking forward to this journey, as if there 
was a gulf fixed between us : and yet what are three or 
four weeks, when passed ? When anticipated, they appear 
as if they might be productive of I know not what pleasures 
and adventures ; but when they are gone, we are almost at 
a loss to recollect any incident that occurred. My preach- 
ing days are almost over. On the Sunday evening I feel 
too much like a laborer, who rejoices that his day's work is 
done, rather than one who reflects how it was performed." 

Some friends having offered a visit at the parsonage 
during his absence on this occasion, he thus wrote to my 
brother : — 



288 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

" Now, my dear John, do remember that you must make 
the house what it should be. Do me honor, I pray you, 
till I can take it upon myself: all that the cellar can, afford, 
or the market, rests with you and your guests, who know 

very well in what good living consists. I doubt if G 

drinks claret. Mr. Spackman, I think, does ; at least he 
produces it, and to him it should be produced. Now do, 
my good fellow, go along with me in this matter : you 
know all I would have, as well as I do myself." 

This short extract will exemplify another characteris- 
tic. Always generous and liberal, I think he grew more 
so in the later portion of his life — not less careful, but 
more bountiful and charitable. He lived scrupulously 
within the limits of his income, increased by the produce 
of his literary exertions; but he freely gave away all that 
he did not want for current expenses. I know not which 
of his relatives have not received some substantial proofs 
of this generous spirit. 

The following letter from Hastings, dated 28th Sep- 
tember, 1830, produced in his parsonage feelings which 
I shall not attempt to describe. 

To the Rev. John Crabbe. 

"My dear Son, — I write (as soon as the post permits) 
to inform you that I arrived in the evening of yesterday, in 
nearly the same state as I left you, and full as well as I 
expected, though a rather alarming accident made me feel 
unpleasantly for some hours, and its effects in a slight degree 
remain. I had been out of the coach a very short time, 
while other passengers were leaving it on their arrival at 
their places ; and, on getting into the coach again, and close 
beside it, a gig, with two men in it, came on as fast as it 
could drive, which I neither saw nor heard, till I felt the 



HASTINGS. 289 

shaft against my side. I fell, of course, and the wheel went 

over one foot and one arm. Twenty people were ready to 

assist a stranger, who in a few minutes was sensible that 

the alarm was all the injury. Benjamin was ready, and my 

friends took care that I should have all the indulgence that 

even a man frightened could require. Happily I found 

them well, and we are all this morning going to one of the 

churches, where I hope I shall remember that many persons, 

under like circumstances, have never survived to relate their 

adventure. I hope to learn very shortly that you are all 

well : remember me to all with you, and to our friends, 

westward and elsewhere. Write — briefly if you must, but 

write. From your affectionate father, 

" Geo. Crabbe. 

*'P. S. — You know my poor. Oram had a shilling on 
Sunday; but Smith, the bed-ridden woman, Martin, and 
Gregory the lame man, you will give to as I would ; nay, 
I must give somewhat more than usual j and if you meet 
with my other poor people, think of my accident, and give a 
few additional shillings for me, and I must also find some 
who want where I am, for my danger was great, and I must 
be thankful in every way I can." 

On the 2d of the next month he thus writes : — 

" I do not eat yet with appetite, but am terribly dainty. 
I walk by the sea and inhale the breeze in the morning, and 
feel as if I were really hungry ; but it is not the true hunger, 
for, whatever the food, I am soon satisfied, or rather sa- 
tiated : but all in good time ; I have yet been at Hastings 
but one week. Dear little Georgy ! I shall not forget her 
sympathy : my love to her, and to my two younger dears, 
not forgetting mamma." 

A friend, who was with him in this expedition, thus 
speaks of him ; — 

25 



290 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

" He was able, though with some effort, to johi a party 
to Hastings in the autumn, and passed much of his time on 
the sea-shore, watching the objects famiUar to him in early- 
life. It was on a cold November morning, that he took his 
LAST look at his favorite element, in full glory, the waves 
foaming and dashing against the shore. He returned, with 
the friends whom he had been visiting, to town, and spent 
some weeks with them in its vicinity, enjoying the society 
to which he was strongly attached, but aware for how short 
a period those pleasures were to last. Having made a 
morning call in Cavendish Square, where he had met Mrs. 
Joanna Baillie, for whom he had a high esteem, and several 
members of her family, he was affected to tears, on getting 
into the carriage after taking leave of them, saying, ^ I shall 
never meet this party again.' His affections knew no 
decline. He was never, apparently, the least tenacious of a~ 
reputation for talent ; but most deeply sensible of every 
proof of regard and affection. One day, when absent from 
home, and suffering from severe illness, he received a letter 
from Miss Waldron, informing him of the heartfelt interest 
which many of his parishioners had expressed for his wel- 
fare. Holding up this letter, he said, with great emotion, 
' Here is something worth living for ! ' " 

I may, perhaps, as well insert in this place a kind 
letter with which I have lately been honored by the 
great Poetess of the Passions : — 

From Mrs. Joanna Baillie. 

" I have often met your excellent father at Mr. Hoare's, 
and frequently elsewhere ; and he was always, when at 
Hampstead, kind enough to visit my sister and me ; but, 
excepting the good sense and gentle courtesy of his con- 
versation and manners, I can scarcely remember any thing 
to mention in particular. Well as he knew mankind under 



LETTER FROM MRS. BATLLIE. 291 

their least favorable aspect, he seemed never to forget that 
they were his brethren, and to loye them even when most 
unlovable — if I may be permitted to use the word. I have 
sometimes been ahnost provoked by the very charitable 
allowances which he made for the unworthy, so that it 
required my knowledge of the great benevolence of his own 
character, and to receive his sentiments as a follower of 
Him who was the friend of publicans and sinners, to recon- 
cile me to such lenity. On the other hand, I have some- 
times remarked that, when a good or generous action has 
been much praised, he would say in a low voice, as to 
himself, something that insinuated a more mingled and 
worldly cause for it. But this never, as it would have done 
from any other person, gave the least offence ; for you felt 
quite assured as he uttered it, that it proceeded from a 
sagacious observance of mankind, and was spoken in sad- 
ness, not in the spirit of satire. 

" In regard to his courtesy relating to the feelings of 
others in smaller matters, a circumstance comes to my 
recollection, in which you will, perhaps, recognise your 
father. While he was staying with Mrs. Hoare a few years 
since, I sent him one day the present of a blackcock, and a 
message with it, that Mr. Crabbe should look at the bird 
before it was delivered to the cook, or something to that 
purpose. He looked at the bird as desired, and then went 
to Mrs. Hoare in some perplexity, to ask whether he ought 
not to have it stuffed, instead of eating it. She could not, 
ill her own house, tell him that it was simply intended for 
the larder, and he was at the trouble and expense of having 
it stuffed, lest I should think proper respect had not been 
put upon my present. This both vexed and amused me at 
the time, and was remembered as a pleasing and peculiar 
trait of his character. 

" He was a man fitted to engage the esteem and good- 
will of all who were fortunate enough to know him well ; 



292 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

and I have always considered it as one of the many obliga- 
tions I owe to the friendship of Mrs. and Miss Hoare, that 
through them I first became acquainted with this distin- 
guished and amiable poet. Believe me, with all good 

wishes, &c. 

" J. Baillie." 

I shall add here part of a letter which I have received 
from another of what I may call my father's Hampstead 
friends — Mr. Duncan, of Bath, well known for the ex- 
tent and elegance of his accomplishments. He says : — 

'' My first acquaintance with him was at the house of 
Mr. Hoare, at Hampstead; by whose whole family he 
appeared to be regarded as a beloved and venerated relation. 
I was much struck, as I think every one who was ever 
in his company must have been, by his peculiar suavity, 
courtesy, and even humility of manner. There was a self- 
renunciation, a carelessness of attracting admiration, which 
formed a remarkable contrast with the ambitious style of 
conversation of some other literati, in whose company I 
have occasionally seen him. I have often thought that a 
natural politeness and sensitive regard for the feelings of 
others occasioned him to reject opportunities of saying smart 
and pointed things, or of putting his remarks into that 
epigrammatic, and, perhaps, not always extemporaneous 
form, which supplies brilliant scraps for collectors of anec- 
dotes. His conversation was easy, fluent, and abundant in 
correct information ; but distinguished chiefly by good sense 
and good feeling. When the merits of contemporary authors 
were discussed, his disapprobation was rather to be collected 
from his unwillingness to dwell on obvious and too promi- 
nent faults, than from severity in the exposure of them. 
But his sympathy with good expression of good feelings, 
such as he found, for example, in the pages of Scott, — 



LETTER FROM MR. DUNCAN. 293 

roused him to occasional fervor. If he appeared at any time 
to show a wish that what he said might be remembered, it 
was when he endeavoured to place in a sunple and clear point 
of view, for the information of a young person, some useful 
truth, whether historical, physiological, moral, or religious. 
He had much acquaintance with botany and geology ; and, 
as you know, was a successful collector of local specimens, 
and as I, and doubtless many others, know, was a liberal 
imparter of his collected store, 

" The peculiar humor which gives briUiancy to his 
writings, gave a charm to his conversation ; but its tendency 
was to excite pleasurable feeling, by affording indulgence to 
harmless curiosity by a peep behind the scenes of human 
nature, rather than to produce a laugh. I remember to 
have heard a country gentleman relate an instance of his 
good temper and self-command. They were travelling in a 
stage-coach from Bath ; and as they approached Calne, the 
squire mentioned the names of certain poets of the neigh- 
bourhood ; expressed his admiration of your father's earlier 
works ; — but ventured to hint that one of the latter, I 
forget which, was a failure, and that he would do well to 
lay his pen aside. ' Sir,' said your father, ' I am quite of 
your opinion. Artists and poets of all ages have fallen into 
the same error. Time creeps on so gently, that they never 
find out that they are growing old ! ' ' So,' said the squire, 
' we talked of Gil Bias and the Archbishop, and soon 
digressed into talk of parish matters and justice business. 
I was delighted with my companion, who soon aUghted ; 
and I only learned by enquiring of the coachman who had 
been my fellow-traveller.' I told this to your father, who 
laughed, remembered the incident, and said, ' the squire, 
perhaps, was right ; but you know I was au incompetent 
judge upon that subject.' " 
25* 



294 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

I have already mentioned his visits to Pucklechurch. 
Great was the pleasure of our household in expecting 
him, for his liberality left no domestic without an ample 
remembrance. What listening for the chaise among the 
children ! It is heard rattling through the street — it is 
in the churchyard — at the door. His pale face is lighted 
with pleasure — as benevolent, as warm-hearted, as in 
his days of youth and strength ; but age has sadly bent 
his once tall stature, and his hand trembles. What a 
package of books — what stores for the table — what 
presents for the nursery ! Little tales, as nearly resem- 
bling those which had delighted his own infancy as 
modern systems permit — one quite after his own heart 
— the German Nursery Stories. * After dinner the 
children assemble round the dessert, and perhaps he 
reads them the story of the Fisherman, his greatest 
favorite. How often have I heard him repeat to them 
the invocation — 

" man of the sea, come listen to me, 
For Alice, my wife, the plague of my life, 
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee." 

And he would excite their wonder and delight, with the 
same evident satisfaction, that I so well remembered in 
my early days. Of the morose feelings of age, repining 
for lost pleasures, he knew nothing ; for his youth had 
been virtuous, his middle age intellectual and manly, his 
decline honorable and honored. Such minds covet not, 
envy not, the advantages of youth, but regard them with 
benevolent satisfaction — perhaps not unmixed with a 
species of apprehensive pity ; — for their fiery ordeal is 
not yet past. 

* The translation of Grimm's Kinder-und Haus-Marchen. 



PUCKLECHURCH. 295 

He loved, particularly at last, to converse on early 
scenes and occurrences ; and when he began that theme, 
it was generally a late hour before we parted. Unfortu- 
nately, I meditated this record too recently to reap the 
full advantage. On these reminiscences, even at the 
date to which my narrative has now come, his spirits 
have risen, and his countenance has brightened into the 
very expression which marked his happiest mood in his 
most vigorous years. 

In the morning, even in the roughest weather, he went 
his way (always preferring to be alone) to some of our 
quarries of blue lias, abounding in fossils, stopping to 
cut up any herb not quite common, that grew in his 
path ; and he would return loaded with them. The dirty 
fossils were placed in our best bed-room, to the great 
diversion of the female part of my family ; the herbs 
stuck in the borders, among my choice flowers, that he 
might see them when he came again. I never displaced 
one of them. 

When we had friends to meet him, with what ease and 
cheerfulness would he enter into the sociality of the 
evening, taking his subject and his tone from those 
around him ; except when he was under the too frequent- 
ly recurring pain, and then he was sometimes obliged to 
retire. Few aged persons so readily acquired an attach- 
ment to strangers : he was ever ready to think warmly of 
every one who treated him with kindness. There was 
no acrimony in him ; and to the end he had that ac- 
commodating mind in conversation, which often marks 
the young, but which is rarely found at the age of three- 
score and ten. 



296 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

We dreaded his departure. It was justly remarked by 
one of his nieces, that he left a feeling of more melan- 
choly vacancy when he quitted a house, than any other 
person, — even than those whose presence afforded more 
positive pleasure. " I hope," said she, one day, very 
earnestly, " that my uncle will not come into Suffolk this 
year ; for T shall dread his going away all the time he is 
with us." He generally left the young people all in tears 
— feeling strongly, and not having the power to conceal 
it. The stooping form, the trembling step, the tone and 
manner of his farewell, especially for the last few years, 
so hurried, so foreboding, so affectionate, overcame us 
all. 

My brother has the following observations on his per- 
severance in his clerical duties: — "With my father's 
active mind and rooted habits — for he did not omit the 
duty on one Sunday for nearly forty years — it would 
have been distressing to him to have ceased to officiate ; 
but the pain to which he was subject, was frequently very 
severe ; and when attacked during the service, he was 
obliged to stop and press his hand hard to his face, and 
then his pale countenance became flushed. Under these 
paroxysms, his congregation evidently felt much for him ; 
and he often hesitated whether he had not better give it 
up altogether. I was accustomed to join him in the 
vestry-room, after reading the prayers ; and whilst sitting 
by the fire, waiting till the organ had ceased, I well recol- 
lect the tone of voice, firm and yet depressed, in which 
he would say, * Well ! — one Sunday more ; ' or, ' a few 
Sundays more, but not many.' I was astonished, how- 
ever, to observe how much his spirits and strength were 
always renovated by an absence from home. He con- 



TROWBRIDGE. 297 

tinued to officiate till the last two Sundays before his 
decease." 

In the midst of one of the radical tumults of this 
period, he thus wrote to Mr. Phillips, the eminent Aca- 
demician, whose portrait of him had been recently 
re-engraved : — 

"Amid the roar of cannon, and that of a tumultuous pop- 
ulace, assembled to show their joy, and to demand shows of 
the same kind from those who reside among them, I retire 
for a few minutes, to reply to your favor : and this must be 
my apology, if I do not thank you as I ought, for the kind- 
ness you express, and your purpose to oblige me in my 
wishes to possess a few copies of the engraving, of which I 
heard such a highly-approving account, by my friend Mr. 
Dawson Turner, of Yarmouth, a gentleman upon whose 
taste I can rely ; nor ought I to omit to mention that of his 
lady, who herself designs in a superior manner, and is an 
excellent judge of all works of the kind. If I were sure of 
having a room to retire to on tbe morrow, with a whole 
window in it, I believe I should postpone my acknowledg- 
ment of your letter ; but there is no setting bounds to the 
exertions of a crowd, in a place like this, when once they 
entertain the idea, be it right or wrong, that you are not of 
their opinion." 

On the 19th of January, 1S31, he thus writes to Mr. 
Henchman Crowfoot, of Beccles, the relative of his son 
John's wife, and for whom he had a strong partiality : 

" 19th January, 1831. 
" A long journey, as that would be into Suffolk, I con- 
template with mixed feelings of hope and apprehension. 
After a freedom of several months' duration, I have once 
more to endure the almost continual attacks of the pain, 
over which I boasted a victory that, alas ! is by no means 



298 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

complete. Again I have recourse to steel, and again feel 
relief; but I am nearly convinced that travelling in stage 
coaches, however good the roads, has a tendency to awaken 
this kind of disease which (I speak reverendly) is not dead, 
but sleepeth. Yet I should rejoice to revisit Beccles, where 
every one is kind to me, arid where every object I view has 
the appearance of friendship and welcome. Beccles is the 
home of past years, and I could not walk through the streets 
as a stranger. It is not so at Aldborough : there a sadness 
mixes with all I see or hear ; not a man is living whom I 
knew in my early portion of life ; my contemporaries are 
gone, and their successors are unknown to me and I to 
them. Yet, in my last visit, my niece and I passed an old 
man, and she said, ' There is one you should know ; you 
played together as boys, and he looks as if he wanted to tell 
you so.' Of course, I stopped on my way, and Zekiel 
Thorpe and I became once more acquainted. This is sadly 
tedious to you : but you need not be told, that old men 
love to dwell upon their Recollections ; and that, I suppose, 
is one reason for the many volumes published under that 
name. — Recollections of gentlemen who tell us what they 
please, and amuse us, in their old age^ with the follies of 
their youth ! 

" I beg to be remembered to and by Mrs. Crowfoot, Sen., 

my what shall I call the relationship ? We are the 

father and mother of our son and daughter, but in what 
legal affinity I cannot determine ; but I hope we may dis- 
cuss that question, if it be necessary, at Trowbridge. And 
now, finally — in which way we close our sermons — once 
more accept my thanks, and those of my son and daughter. 
We have this day dined magnificently on your turkey, and 
drank our wine with remembrances to our friends in Suf- 
folk. We are all — if I except my too frequently recurring 
pain — in good health; and — the indisposition of Mrs. 
George Crabbe excepted — so are the Gloucestershire part 



TROWBRIDGE. 299 

of my family : mine, I repeat with some pride and with 
more pleasure. I should much like on hour's conversation, 
inter nos, without participation, without interruption ; and 
I am fully persuaded that you would not reject it." 

The following is from a letter dated in the April of the 
same year — the last of his life : — 

•' Comparing myself with myself, I have felt the weaken- 
ing effect of time more within the last six months than I 
ever experienced before. I do not know that I am weaker 
than numbers are at my age, but I am sure that there is 
great difference between me at this time, and me (if I may 
so say) at Hastings last year. I cannot walk, no, not half 
the distance ; and then — (one more complaint and I have 
done) — I cannot read, but for a short time at once : and 
now I would ask myself, What would I do at Pucklechurch ? 
if my feet fail me when I walk, my sight when I read — 
why, I should be a perpetual incumbrance. You will say, 
What, then, do you do at Trowbridge ? There, you know, 
I have a number of small and often recurring duties, and I 
play with my fossils ; but still I am always purposing to 
come to you when I can." 

Again in May : — 

" I am still weak, and just as I suppose like other old 
declining people, without any particular diseases. But in 
the latter part of the day I become much renovated. Mr. 
Waldron and I talked of a London journey last evening, till 
I began to persuade myself I was capable of the undertaking. 
A little serious consideration when I left him, and especially 
this morning's feelings, put to flight all such young man's 
fancies." 

Towards the close of this year he again visited his 
friends, his kind and attached friends, of Hampstead, at 
their residence at Clifton ; and this visit occurring at the 



300 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

memorable time of the Bristol riots, I will subjoin some 
extracts from his letters from thence — the last we ever 
received. 

"Clifton, October 24. — Assure our dear Caroline,* that 
I feel pleasure in the thought of sitting in any room she 
assigns me ; there to employ myself in my own way, with- 
out being troubled or interrupted by any one's business, as 
at Trowbridge, even by my own. You can scarcely believe 
how the love and enjoyment of quiet grows upon me. One 
of my great indulgences is to feel myself alone, but to know, 
and perhaps hear, that a whole family, Httle ones and great, 
are within a few paces of me, and that I can see them when 
I please — this is a grandpapa's luxury. Miss Carohne ! 

'^ I have to thank my friends for one of the most beautiful 
as well as comfortable rooms you could desire. I look from 
my window upon the Avon and its wooded and rocky 
bounds — the trees yet green. A vessel is sailing down, 
and here comes a steamer (Irish, I suppose). I have in 
view the end of the Cliff to the right, and on my left a wide 
and varied prospect over Bristol, as far as the eye can reach, 
and at present the novelty makes it very interesting. Clifton 
was always a favorite place with me. I have more strength 
and more spirits since my arrival at this place, and do not 
despair of giving a good account of my excursion on my 
return. 

" I believe there is a fund of good sense as well as moral 
feeling in the people of this country ; and if ministers pro- 
ceed steadily, give up some points, and be firm in essentials, 
there will be a union of sentiment on this great subject of 
reform by and by ; at least, the good and well-meaning will 
drop their minor differences and be united. 

" So you have been reading my almost forgotten stories 
— Lady Barbara and Ellen ! I protest to you their origin 

* His daughter-in-law. 



CLIFTON, 1831. 301 

is lost to me, and I must read them myself before I can 
apply your remarks. But I am glad you have mentioned 
the subject, because I have to observe that there are, in my 
recess at home, where they have been long undisturbed, 
another series of such stories, — in number and quantity 
sufficient for an octavo volume ; and as I suppose they are 
much like the former in execution, and sufficiently different 
in events and characters, they may hereafter, in peaceable 
times, be worth something to you ; and the more, because 
I shall, whatever is mortal of me, be at rest in the chancel 
of Trowbridge church ; for the works of authors departed 
are generally received with some favor, partly as they are 
old acquaintances, and in part because there can be no more 
of them." 

This letter was our first intimation that my father had 
any more poems quite prepared for the press; — little did 
we at that moment dream that we should never have an 
opportunity of telling him, that since we knew of their 
existence, he might as well indulge us with the pleasure 
of hearing them read by himself On the 26th of the 
same October he thus wrote to me : — 

" I have been with Mrs. Hoare at Bristol, where all 
appears still : should any thing arise to alarm, you may rely 
upon our care to avoid danger. Sir Charles Wetherell, to 
be sure, is not popular, nor is the Bishop, but I trust that 
both will be safe from violence, — abuse they will not mind. 
The Bishop seems a good-humored man, and, except by the 
populace, is greatly admired. — I am sorry to part with my 
friends, whom I cannot reasonably expect to meet often, — 
or, more reasonably yet, whom I ought to look upon as 
here taking our final leave ; but, happily, our ignorance of 
our time is in this our comfort, — that let friends part at 
any period of their lives, hope will whisper, 'We shall meet 
again.'" 

26 



302 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

Happily, he knew not that this ivas their last meeting. 
In his next letter he speaks of the memorable riots of 
Bristol — the most alarming of the sort since those re- 
corded in his own London diary, of 1780 — and which 
he had evidently anticipated. 

" Bristol, I suppose, never, in the most turbulent times 
of old, witnessed such outrage. Queen's Square is but half 
standing ; half is a smoking ruin. As you may be appre- 
hensive for my safety, it is right to let you know that my 
friends and I are undisturbed, except by our fears for the 
progress of this mob-government, which is already some- 
what broken into parties, who wander stupidly about, or 
sleep wherever they fall, wearied with their work and their 
indulgence. The military are now in considerable force, 
and many men are sworn in as constables : many volunteers 
are met in Clifton churchyard, with white round one arm, 
to distinguish them ; some with guns, and the rest with 
bludgeons. The Mayor's house has been destroyed, — the 
Bishop's palace plundered, but whether burned or not I do 
not know. This morning, a party of soldiers attacked the 
crowed in the Square ; some lives were lost, and the mob 
dispersed, whether to meet again is doubtful. It has been a 
dreadful time, but we may reasonably hope it is now over. 
People are frightened certainly — and no wonder, for it is 
evident these poor wretches would plunder to the extent of 
their power. Attempts were made to burn the cathedral, 
but failed. Many lives were lost. To attempt any other 
subject now would be fruitless. We can think, speak, and 
write only of our fears, hopes, or troubles. I would have 
gone to Bristol to-day, but Mrs. Hoare was unwilling that 
I should. She thought, and perhaps rightly, that clergy- 
men were marked objects. I therefore only went about 
half way, and of course could learn but little. All now is 
quiet and well." 



BRISTOL, 1831. 303 

Leaving his most valued friends in the beginning of 
November, my father came to Pucklechurch, so improved 
in health and strength, that his description of himself 
would have been deemed the effect of mere ennui, except 
by those who know the variableness of age — the tempo- 
rary strength, — the permanent weakness. He preached 
at both my churches the following Sunday, in a voice so 
firm and loud, and in a manner so impressive, that I was 
congratulated on the power he manifested at that ad- 
vanced stage of life, and was much comforted with the 
indications of a long protracted decline. I said, " Why, 
Sir, I will venture a good sum that you will be assisting 
me ten years hence." — "Ten weeks," was his answer 
— and that was almost literally the period when he 
ceased to assist any one. He left us after a fortnight, 
and returned to Trowbridge. On the 7th of January he 
wrote, — 

^' I do not like drowsiness — mine is an old man's natural 
infirmity, and that same old man creeps upon me more and 
more. I cannot walk him away : he gets hold on the 
memory, and my poor little accounts never come right. 
Let me nevertheless be thankful : I have very little pain. 
'Tis true, from a stifiness in my mouth, I read prayers 
before we take our breakfast with some difficulty ; but that 
being over, I feel very little incommoded for the rest of the 
day. We are all in health, for I will not call my lassitude 
and stupidity by the name of illness. Like Lear, I am a 
poor old man and foolish ; but happily I have no daughter 
who vexes me." 

In the course of this month, I paid him a visit, and 
stayed with him three or four days ; and if I had been 
satisfied with the indications of his improved health when 
at Pucklechurch, I was most agreeably surprised to find 



304 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

him still stronger and in better spirits than I had wit- 
nessed for the last three years. He had become per- 
ceptibly stouter in that short interval : he took his meals 
with a keen appetite, and walked in a more upright 
position ; and there were no counter-tokens to excite our 
suspicions. It is true, he observed that he did not like 
the increase of flesh ; but this was said in that light, 
cheerful manner, which imported no serious fears. On 
the 29th, I received a letter from my brother, stating that 
he had caught a sharp cold, accompanied with oppres- 
sion in the chest and pain in the forehead, for which he 
had been bled. He added, that my father felt relieved, 
and that he would write again immediately ; but on the 
following morning, while I was expecting an account of 
his amendment, a chaise drove to the door, which my 
brother had sent me to save time. In fact, all hope of 
recovery was already over. 

I had once before seen him, as I have already de- 
scribed, under nearly similar circumstances, when, if he 
was not in extreme danger, he evidently thought he was. 
He had then said, " unless some great change takes 
place, I cannot recover," and had ordered my mother's 
grave to be kept open to receive him. I asked myself, 
will he bear the shock now as firmly as he did then? I 
feared he would not; because he must be aware that 
such a change as had then ensued was next to impossible 
under the present disorder at the age of seventy-seven ; 
and because, whenever he had parted with any of us for 
the last four or five years, he had been much affected, 
evidently from the thought that it might be the last 
meeting. I greatly feared, therefore, that his spirits 
would be woefully depressed — that the love of life might 



TROWBRIDGE. 305 

remain in all its force, and that the dread of death might 
be strong and distressing. I now state with feelings of 
indescribable thankfulness, that I had been foreboding a 
weight of evil that was not ; and that we had only to 
lament his hodily sufferings and our incalculable loss. 

During the days that preceded his departure, we had 
not one painful feeling arising from the state of his mind. 
That was more firm than I ever remembered under any 
circumstances. He knew there was no chance of his 
recovery, and yet he talked at intervals of his death, and 
of certain consequent arrangements, with a strong com- 
placent voice ; and bade us all adieu without the least 
faltering of the tongue, or moisture of the eye. The 
awfulness of death, apprehended by his capacious mind, 
must have had a tendency to absorb other feelings ; yet 
was he calm and unappalled ; — and intervals of oblivion, 
under the appearance of sleep, softened his sufferings 
and administered an opiate to his faculties. One of his 
characteristics, — exuberance of thought, seemed some- 
times, even when pleased, as if it oppressed him ; and 
in this last illness, when he was awake, his mind worked 
with astonishing rapidity. It was not delirium ; for on 
our recalling his attention to present objects, he would 
speak with perfect rationality; but, when uninterrupted, 
the greater portion of his waking hours were passed in 
rapid soliloquies on a variety of subjects, the chain of 
which from his imperfect utterance (when he did not 
exert himself) we were unable to follow. We seldom 
interrupted the course that nature was taking, or brought 
him to the effort of connected discourse, except to learn 
how we could assist or relieve him. But as in no 
instance (except in a final lapse of memory) did wq 
26=^ 



306 LIFE OF CKABBE. 

discover the least irrationality — so there was no de- 
spondency ; on the contrary, the cheerful expressions 
which he had been accustomed to use, were heard from 
time to time ; nay, even that elevation of the inner side 
of the eyebrows, which occasionally accompanied some 
humorous observation in the days of his health, occurred 
once or twice after every hope of life was over. But, if 
we were thankful for his firmness of mind, we had to 
lament the strength of his constitution. I was not aware 
how powerful it was till tried by this disease. I said, 
" It is your great strength which causes this suifering." 
He replied, *' but it is a great price to pay for it." 

On one essential subject it would be wrong to be 
silent. I have stated, that the most important of all con- 
siderations had had an increasing influence over his 
mind. The growth had been ripening with his age, and 
was especially perceptible in his later years. With re- 
gard to the ordinances of religion, he was always 
manifestly pained if, when absent from home on a Sun- 
day, he had been induced to neglect either the morning 
or evening services : in his private devotions, as his 
household can testify, he was most exemplaiy and earnest 
up to the period of this attack ; yet at that time, when 
fear often causes the first real prayer to be uttered, then 
did he, as it were, confine himself to the inward work- 
ings of his pious and resigned spirit, occasionally, 
however, betrayed by aspirations most applicable to his 
circumstances. Among the intelligible fragments that 
can never be forgotten, were frequent exclamations of, 
" My time is short ; it is well to be prepared for death." 
" Lucy," — this was the affectionate servant that attend- 
ed along with his sons, — *' dear Lucy, be earnest in 



TROWBRIDGE. 397 

prayer ! May you see your children's children." From 
time to time he expressed great fear that we were all 
over-exerting ourselves in sitting up at night with him ; 
but the last night he said, " Have patience with me — it 
will soon be over. — Stay with me, Lucy, till I am dead, 
and then let others take care of me." This night was 
most distressing. The changes of posture sometimes 
necessary, gave him extreme pain, and he said, " This 
is shocking." Then again he became exhausted, or his 
mind wandered in a troubled sleep. Awaking a little 
refreshed, he held out his hand to us, saying — as if he 
felt it might be the last opportunity, "God bless you — 
be good, and come to me ! " Even then, though we 
were all overpowered, and lost all self-command, he con- 
tinued firm. His countenance now began to vary and 
alter. Once, however, we had the satisfaction of seeing 
it lighted up with an indescribable expression of joy, as 
he appeared to be looking at something before him, and 
uttered these words, " That blessed book ! " 

After another considerable interval of apparent in- 
sensibility, he awoke, and said, in a tone so melancholy, 
that it rang in my ears for weeks after, " I thought it 
had been all over," with such an emphasis on the all! 
Afterwards he said, " I cannot see you now." When I 
said, "We shall soon follow;" he answered, "Yes, 
yes ! " I mentioned his exemplary fortitude ; but he 
appeared unwilling to have any good ascribed to himself. 

When the incessant presents and enquiries of his 
friends in the town were mentioned, he said, " What a 
trouble I am to them all ! " And in the course of the 
night, these most consolatory words were distinctly 
heard, *' All is well at last ! " Soon after, he said, im- 



308 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

perfectly, " You must make an entertainment; " meaning 
for his kind Trowbridge friends after his departure. 
These were the last intelligible words I heard. Lucy, 
who could scarcely be persuaded to leave him, day or 
night, and was close by him when he died, says that the 
last words he uttered were, " God bless you — God bless 
you ! " 

About one o'clock he became apparently torpid; and 
I left him with my brother, requesting to be called in- 
stantly, in case of the least returning sensibility, — but 
it never returned. As my brother was watching his 
countenance at seven o'clock in the morning, a rattling 
in the throat was heard once, and twice, but the third or 
fourth time all was over. 

The shutters of the shops in the town were half closed, 
as soon as his death was known. On the day of his 
funeral, ninety-two of the principal inhabitants, including 
all the dissenting ministers, assembling of their own 
accord in the school-room, followed him to the grave. 
The shops on tliis day were again closed ; the streets 
crowded ; the three galleries and the organ-loft were 
hung with black cloth, as well as the pulpit and chancel. 
The choir was in mourning — the other inhabitants of 
the town were in their seats and in mourning — the 
church was full — the effect appalling. The terrible 
solemnity seems yet recent while I write. The leader 
of the choir selected the following beautiful anthem : 

" When the ear heard him, then it blessed him ; 
And when the eye saw him, it gave witness of him. 
He delivered the poor that cried, the fatherless, and him that 

had none to help him : 
Kindness and meekness and comfort were in his tongue." 



TROWBRIDGE. 309 

The worthy master of the Free and Sunday School at 
Trowbridge, Mr. Nightingale, on the Sunday after his 
funeral, delivered an impressive address to the numerous 
children under his care, on the death of their aged and 
affectionate minister. It was printed, and contains the 
following passage : '' ' Poor Mr. Crabbe,' said a little girl, 
the other day, very simply, 'poor 3Ii\ Crabbe will never 
go up in pulpit any more ivith his white head.' No ! my 
children, that hoary head — found, as may yours and 
mine be found ! — in the ways of righteousness and 
peace, is gone to rest ; but his memory is embalmed in 
the house of our God. Sacred is the honored dust that 
sleeps beside yonder altar. Is there one of you who has 
not experienced his kindness? — who has not seen his 
eyes beam with pleasure to hear you repeat ' Thy king- 
dom come ; Thy will be done ? ' — Religiously keep the 
Bibles he gave you ; and when you read these words of 
your Saviour — ' I go to prepare a place for you — and 
when I come, I will receive you to myself — think of 
your affectionate minister, and that these were his dying 
words — ' Be good, and come to me.' " 

Soon after his funeral, some of the principal parish- 
ioners met, in order to form a committee, to erect a 
monument over his grave in the chancel : and when his 
family begged to contribute to the generous undertaking, 
it was not permitted. " They desired," it was observed 
by their respected chairman,* " to testify their regard to 
him as a friend and a minister." And, I trust, his 
children's children will be taught to honor those, who, 

* Mr. Waldron, his young friend and adviser, now like himself 
numbered with the departed. He died, universally beloved and 
lamented, April, 1833, a year and two months after my father. 



310 LIFE OF CRABBE. 

by their deep sense of his worth, have given so strong a 
token of their own worthiness. 

The subscriptions to his monument being sufficiently 
large to sanction the commission of the work to the 
hands of Mr. Baillie, he finished it in July, and it was 
placed in the church, August, 1833. The eminent 
artist himself generously contributed the marble. 

A figure admirably represents the dying poet, casting 
his eyes on the sacred volume ; two celestial beings are 
looking on, as if awaiting his departure : below is the 
following short and beautiful inscription, judiciously ex- 
pressed in his own native tongue : — 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY 
OF 

THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE, LL.B., 

WHO DIED FEBRUARY THE THIRD, 1832, 

IN THE SEVENTY-EIGHTH YEAR OF HIS AGE, AND THE 

NINETEENTH OF HIS SERVICES AS RECTOR 

OF THIS PARISH. 

BORN IN HUMBLE LIFE, HE MADE HIMSELF WHAT HE WAS. 

BY THE FORCE OF HIS GENIUS, 

HE BROKE THROUGH THE OBSCURITY OF HIS BIRTH ; 

YET NEVER CEASED TO FEEL FOR THE 

LESS FORTUNATE J 

ENTERING (aS HIS WORKS CAN TESTIFY) INTO 

THE SORROWS AND DEPRIVATIONS 

OF THE POOREST OF HIS PARISHIONERS ; 

AND SO DISCHARGING THE DUTIES OF HIS STATION AS A 

MINISTER AND A MAGISTRATE, 

AS TO ACQ.UIRE THE RESPECT AND ESTEEM 

OF ALL HIS NEIGHBOURS. 

AS A WRITER, HE IS WELL DESCRIBED BY A GREAT 

CONTEMPORARY AS 

'' nature's STERNEST PAINTER, YET HER BEST." 



CONCLUSION. 311 

It is the custom to close a biographical work with a 
summary of character. I must leave the reader of these 
pages to supply this for himself. I conclude with simply 
transcribing a few verses — ascribed to an eminent pen, 
which appeared in print shortly after my dear and vene- 
rated father's departure : — 

" Farewell, dear Crabbe! thou meekest of mankind, 
With heart all fervor, and all strength of mind. 
With tenderest sympathy for others' woes. 
Fearless, all guile and malice to expose : 
Steadfast of purpose in pursuit of right. 
To drag forth dark hypocrisy to light, 
To brand the oppressor, and to shame the proud, 
To shield the righteous from the slanderous crowd ; 
To error lenient and to frailty mild. 
Repentance ever was thy welcome child : 
In every state, as husband, parent, friend. 
Scholar, or bard, thou couldst the Christian blend. 
Thy verse from Nature's face each feature drew. 
Each lovely charm, each mole and wrinkle too. 
No dreamy incidents of wild romance, 
With whirling shadows, wildered minds entrance ; 
But plain realities the mind engage. 
With pictured warnings through each polished page. 
Hogarth of Song ! be this thy perfect praise : — 
Truth prompted, and Truth purified thy lays ; 
The God of Truth has given thy verse and thee 
Truth's holy palm — His Immortality." 



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